


Threadbare

by LitheLies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Comfort/Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Forced Marriage, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Marriage Contracts, Minor Hermione Granger/Severus Snape, Platonic Relationships, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Self-Harm, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sneaking Around, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22472404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitheLies/pseuds/LitheLies
Summary: “They’re saying,” her voice shook. “That if we don’t agree to marry whoever they tell us to, that we’ll die, and it’s… It’s our own fault.”Ginny stared down their oven, which had a few burnt stickers on the glass. Likely from a child who’d lived here previously."They’re killing us," Hermione said. "Immediately, or slowly, they’re killing us, Ginny."“You’ve got the Order Hermione,” she huffed through her nose, her arms crossed over her chest. “We won’t let them take you.”Hermione wanted to believe her, but it was clear.The Wizarding community didn’t want her; it never wanted her.( Eventual Dramione; includes consent issues (mentioned), all that you’d anticipate in a ‘forced marriage’ type story as background elements that will be brought up, death, violence, physical and sexual assault. )
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 283
Kudos: 321





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archive warnings updated; it's not going to be intensely graphic but the story is dark and it slips in, so I added violence to be safe. 
> 
> I promise it's Dramione; it's just a slow burn to get there.

**Saturday - 2nd of May, 1998.**

The air was thick with smoke as Hogwarts fell.

"Hermione!"

Her head snapped towards Ron, who waved his arm at her.

There was no time to linger upstairs, among those fighting. They had to find the fangs.

If there had been a plan of defense, Hermione hadn't been informed. People pointed and shouted at one another as the wards failed. The peppering of counter-curses against the protective shell fizzled in a distant, muted way.

Hermione rolled her wand in her grip, as she debated her choice of action. She should stay up here, to protect those who needed it.

There was no use in waiting or watching.

Hermione tore her gaze away from the muddy sprawl of duels. She and Ron vanished into the bowels of the castle in search of the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry had been right behind them. He'd whispered to the door, and — and he followed them into the Chamber.

Hadn't he?

But he wasn't there with them, not as they stepped past the seal, nor as Ron spoke about the house elves he was worried for. Not as they kissed. Not as she felt her crush freeze over between their lips, their mutual adrenaline too thick for intimacy. It was hot and messy and their teeth clashed so hard she feared she might have lost one. He wasn't a good kisser, though she didn't know if such a thing were real.

More important things, she reminded herself. Her mouth tasted of sweat and whatever he'd eaten before they'd come here, and she'd lost her train of thought.

Harry.

Harry was meant to be with them, he was meant to wait for Nagini to fall. There had been a plan but that had gone by the wayside. He hadn't waited for them, hadn't come through the stone portal with them.

Her stomach sank as they rose back through the sewers to the castle proper.

As they resurfaced, chaos echoed all around them.

Moaning Myrtle laughed in a cruel way as she watched from her perch. She wriggled her brows and brimmed with joy.

"Harry ran out, something about going alone."

"Alone? Why!" Hermione shouted, as if it were Myrtle's fault.

"Well, I don't know! But if you see his ghost, tell him to come live with me," Myrtle sang after them. "I've always wanted a friend who won't leave me behind."

They sprinted out with the teeth in their arms. She was careful not to prick herself on the edges of the great shards of hollow bone.

Time cut as her vision clipped apart. They were in the hallway and then they were on the Grand Staircase.

She blinked and they were in the Great Hall.

There were dozens of voices, muted and mixed. She could taste smoke and burnt flesh.

The air was electric with magical residue and so much heat. Several stone knights laid shattered on the ground outside. She mistook one for a body in her haste. She breathed a sigh of relief until she saw the pale swath of skin tucked beneath it.

They had long brown hair and Hermione sighed with relief. Her chest seized seconds later, as she realized she'd been thankful someone else had died instead of Harry.

They twitched. She couldn't help them.

Not right now.

They needed to finish this.

A sound much like an aquarium shattering broke above. Ash and sparks flew from the sky, and she could hear the crackle of Apparation. The howls of wolves. The ground shook from the impact of the giants.

A group of students were huddled behind the corpse of a giant, which Hermione admired with morbid pride. Giants were immune to many magical spells. They would be safe there, at least for the moment.

Ron and Hermione slammed into place, their backs pressed to the still-warm flesh of the giant.

"Have you seen Harry?" Hermione looked at the nearest girl with wide blue eyes and long blonde hair. Luna looked tense for the first time ever. It didn't suit her.

"Neville killed Nagini," she said, her voice uneven. She raised a hand towards the middle of the courtyard, where Hermione spotted Voldemort and Harry.

The Death Eaters and those aligned with Hogwarts froze. The air thickened and sound muted. There was something off, as if her head had been angled the wrong way. She wanted to scream, to do anything. But she couldn't. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe.

Air and sound vanished together in a great cloud of smoke. A Dark Mark ricocheted into the sky with a deafening crack, matched by each wizards' signature spell.

_Avada Kedavra._

_Expelliamus._

She was too late.

The fangs rolled from her arms with a clatter. She didn't hear it. She couldn't hear anything, not as she gripped Ron's bicep with stern hands. He pulled away from her, but the other students assisted her. They crushed together against the mass of the giant, to hide from the confrontation.

It was too dangerous to be in the middle of the courtyard. They didn't know what the smoke was, if it was a weapon or a curse.

She had been ready for her death, as a necessity of war. She wasn't the best duelist, not by any means, and she had no interest in killing others.

She just wanted to survive.

Both sides stilled as they waited to see who remained standing.

The smoke cleared as a blinding white light formed.

Voldemort stood, uneven and slow…

And then he fell to his knees.

Harry.

Hermione searched for Harry in the cleared smoke. She could see a hand and a leg, scraps of his clothes torn and bloody. She blinked a few times, unable to make sense of what she saw.

Voldemort collapsed altogether, flat on his face and messily sprawled.

If he was dead…

He laid before them like a bleached mannequin, pocked with black marks and a wide tattoo on his inner left forearm. He laid in the courtyard across from Harry, or what was left of Harry. She could see a hand, a foot… Pieces of Harry, which gradually turned to ash with the gust of the wind.

The Death Eaters who remained began to Disapparate in droves. Bellatrix, who had been behind her Lord, rushed forward and vanished with him. Hermione searched the dwindling crowd. All that remained were mismatched Snatchers and the dark creatures that had been recruited.

"That can't be right," Ron said, his voice shaken. "What the hell is this," he shoved Hermione away and rushed towards the offal spread across the courtyard.

Hermione didn't have to approach to know what had happened.

The Elder Wand had exploded from misuse or an incorrect master. The smoke, the backfired spells. Hermione stared at the aftermath, at where Harry had been standing moments ago.

Now all that remained were his shoes and several pieces of his clothes.

More than that, she wanted Harry to survive. He deserved it; he was owed a life with Ginny, with the Weasleys, and with the praise of the Wizarding world.

Her death was something she'd considered and measured, as the Mudblood beside Potter, as the insufferable girl with the wrong blood thrumming through her. She had almost died in First Year, and her Second Year - the near-deaths racked up, year by year. It was a matter of statistics, if she could find the variable in her favor.

Each year You-Know-Who rose, little by little, a whisper and a wail.

But it was so much more than that.

* * *

**Friday - August 4th, 2001.**

Hermione stirred in the thick summer air, her face taut from her restless sleep.

She sat up with a wet sense of dread. Her back drenched and her mattress rapidly cool to her touch. She winced, inwardly, her lips scrunched and her brows furrowed. Her room was like a compact oven and smelled of parchment and old shoes.

Crookshanks remained curled up as she stood up. It was a double bed that she'd crammed into the corner of her small room. Her lovely little boy had managed to take two-thirds of it for himself.

She smiled with what fondness she could manage, her expression still pinched as she grabbed her robe.

It was light and silk, a present from Luna who'd gotten back from Japan. Her thick terrycloth robe would make her burst into flames as the summer heat kicked into overdrive.

She stepped around several piles of books and a pile of parchments and caught herself on her small Ikea dresser. She'd not cleaned up the night before, nor had she bothered to change.

Her day at work piled onto her night of espionage.

Useless, honestly, and it hurt her to say it.

She exchanged her t-shirt and jeans for the robe, as she needed a shower. The murky morning air made her skin ache where the denim had bitten into her skin, and all she could smell was the woods and her sweat. She trudged all the way to the bathroom.

Her grimace widened as she heard the water running, to which she pressed her forehead to the door.

She was about to call through the thin door until she heard moans and wet slaps.

A low sound of disgust formed from the back of her throat.

She withdrew and resisted the urge to ward the door against sound. If she did, Ginny would get weird, and Wood would get even weirder, and the whole situation was weird to begin with.

Coffee first, then shower. Perhaps a slight Obliveration to ease her weary mind.

Then again, neither Ginny nor Wood seemed to care for her sanity.

Hermione would guess her best friend wanted to make the most of her alone time in the apartment. It was too small for two people, but there was safety in numbers.

She licked her lips apart as she brewed her coffee the 'Muggle way', as Ginny affectionately called it.

While she could conjure it, coffee was always lukewarm and bitter when she summoned it. Plus, it wasn't natural to her to default to magic for every little thing. She worried about where it'd come from, or if she'd stolen someone else's coffee from somewhere else and -

It was easier, to take the time to brew her coffee.

It was meditative.

Her fingers worked in small circles as she wove a golden string around her fingers. She formed luminescent sigils, which alternated as she touched different parts of her fingers. She racked her brain for any interesting facts from her patrol, but all she had was the man who'd not cleaned up after his dog.

That wasn't the sort of criminal activity she was after.

But The Order needed information, and Hermione could do information.

She had the time to sit around key locations, and the natural inclination towards sensing wards. Not to mention that an excuse to get out of her apartment was a blessed thing.

Ever since she'd walked in on Ginny and Wood kissing, they'd been more brazen, and Hermione needed to get out more.

And really, it was no different to sit outside of a suspected Snatcher hub than to sit at a coffee shop. At least stake-outs were free and useful. Perhaps a little dangerous, but she was clever and quick. She alternated her attention between her target location and whatever book she'd decided to bring along.

She'd spent the past month reading books on Necromancy and Dark Arts; mythology was at least a lighter subject, save for all the rape and torture and grief. They were stories, she could tell herself. They weren't first-hand accounts, taken down on the behalf of those who had fallen.

Her dream reemerged, the visual of Voldemort splayed under a cloudy sky, his legs and arms at painful angles, unmoving.

No one had expected that.

"Hermione!"

Hermione didn't look up, though she drew her robe close. She raised her attention to Ginny after a long moment, as the girl stood with wet hair and red marks.

The blush on her cheeks, the bites on her neck.

"Didn't think you'd be up, it's early."

Hermione smiled, her eyes glazed over as she pretended not to notice Wood peek out and then dip back away. "I'm always up early."

"Yeah, but, you were out late, I assumed you'd - oi!" She elbowed Wood who had said something from inside the bathroom. Hermione had missed the specifics of it.

From how she blushed, Hermione would suspect it was flirtatious.

"You're done with the bathroom, aren't you," Hermione said, not as a question.

"Um, did you want to go get breakfast together first?"

"I'd rather shower first," Hermione kept her smile in place, though it faltered. She didn't want to comment on Wood, on why he was here or what he and Ginny had been up to. She, politely, didn't care. Not in any measurable way.

So long as Ginny was happy.

It'd been so long since she'd been truly happy.

"One second!" And Ginny vanished into the bathroom, where Wood was hiding.

Hermione watched with patient attention. She really did just want to shower. While Scourgify could see to the grit and sweat of her patrol from the previous evening, there was a special catharsis to alone time in the shower. She'd cried in the shower most of her First Year, as it'd been private and relieving, to lose herself and her tears in the water.

She supposed the shower had its own catharsis for the not-really-a-couple couple in front of her.

Wood emerged with Ginny, though they looked angry. Each had a stern expression and a red face.

"Hello Wood," Hermione finished the last of her coffee, the golden thread of crocheted notes dissipated around her fingers. She could recall them later, to transcribe for the Order meeting later that day.

"Hermione," he said with a curt nod.

"He came over, to help with the shower, it was just, really broken, you know."

"If you bang on the pipe hard enough, it works." The corner of her lips twitched as she tried not to smile. It was a little tart of her, certainly, but she wasn't stupid.

Ginny and Wood spoke in tandem by mistake a few times until they vanished into Ginny's room.

Hermione slipped into the bathroom, her eyes narrowed at the scent of sex. She waved both her hands so hard that gusts of air took through the air. She turned to close the door and saw Wood rush past and out the front door of their apartment. He might have said goodbye. He'd been too busy in his exit.

Ginny had her face pressed to the frame of her bedroom door, as red as her hair.

"It's just a one-time thing," Ginny said as if she felt the weight of Hermione's stare.

"You've said that a few times now," Hermione said, her tone level. "It becomes more than a one-time thing if you do it more than once."

Ginny lifted her head, her eyes red and glossy.

Hermione's lips parted, but the younger girl vanished into her room. There was no right thing to say, really. She would have gone after her, to console her, but she didn't have the words. And she felt itchy and hot from her night in full clothes.

She closed the door behind her with a click. She peeled the robe off, to hook it onto the back of the door. Her towel was in here already, which she grimaced at. Wood had used it, she could tell from the splotches of wet on it.

Out of frustration, she waved her hand to summon one from her closet. They didn't have a dedicated linen cupboard, given that they had such limited space. Hermione lived out of her beaded purse, as she had for the past few years.

Summer made for the worst showers. She couldn't have it hot enough to work out the kinks in her back, but having it too cold made her miserable. She was stuck in a lukewarm shower, her skin too sensitive in all the deep red divots from her jeans and shirt.

Still, it was a far sight better than it had been, back when she'd slept in tents and in rosters.

But that was then.

Back when she'd had a crush on Ron and hope for Harry.

She hadn't had a nightmare about Hogwarts for months now. She suspected the hot night and claustrophobic clothes must have drawn it out of her, or she was sick. It was hard to pinpoint. Her sleep was usually dreamless and short, only three or four hours at a time.

She was a light sleeper nowadays. Any noise would wake her. Perhaps the shower had woken her.

Her hands pressed flat to the white tiles, her nails dug into the grout. Her forehead pressed to the warm tiles, the sticky dots on the bottom of the shower the only thing saving her from toppling over. She'd had too much coffee too quickly, and so she was stuck in this tunnel of hyper-focus and panic.

It could have been the dream, or the delayed shower, or the wasted night outside of an unremarkable warehouse.

The warehouse was somewhere they suspected Snatchers were stockpiling prisoners on behalf of the Death Eaters. It sat on the axis of a park and a warehouse, obscured and dark. It would be easy to sneak tens of people into the thick shrubs, to ferry them through the chainlink fences.

That was the theory, at least.

By the time she'd returned to the kitchen, Ginny was in her Quidditch robes and made up. Her brows and eyes always popped along with a subtle shade to her lips. It was more than Hermione could manage, as she'd forget she had it on and smear it around her face.

She was very prone to rubbing her eyes out of frustration when she read, and she'd end up with black smears around them like a raccoon.

Ginny had her legs curled up beneath her in her slim metal seat, the plastic edges all scuffed and bursting. She had a decisive frown on her face.

"I can't believe they're still on about this," Ginny groaned, the Daily Prophet sprawled in front of her.

Hermione took a seat beside Ginny at their four-person laminate table. The apartment was the peak of Muggle student accommodation, cramped and minimal. Neither girl had decorated yet, and it was unlikely that they would. This was their third apartment this year, though Hermione expected that number to double.

Marital Bliss With True Love's Kiss by Rita Skeeter.

Hermione grimaced so deeply she felt her chin regress into her neck. The photo on the front page showed Sally Smith with Gregory Goyle.

Sally was a pretty Hufflepuff girl Hermione had buddied with during Herbology fourth year, one who laughed like wind chimes and kept bread rolls to feed to the Great Squid in the summertime.

Goyle looked like a shoebox that'd been stacked onto a brick wall, with a marker impression of a man's face. He was boxy and broad, a perpetually miserable bully.

Even as confetti flew across the photo, and people cheered, and Sally - she looked to Goyle, a little too skittish for Hermione to buy into the shot.

"Are they still saying it's a rediscovered clause in some-such Muggle-Wizard agreement?" Hermione drawled, her tone thick with distaste. "The one that doesn't exist in any history book."

Ginny skimmed the article, her expression rancid. "A collective of magical elders in the early eleventh century forged an agreement with an old Muggle ruler, to breed - I hate the word breed, can we agree?" Ginny looked to Hermione, who nodded. "To breed a blended generation of understanding and compassion."

"Do they have proof of this agreement?"

Ginny snorted.

"I could say, oh, in the eighth century, they made it a crime to eat horseradishes on Tuesday." Hermione rocked back in her seat, her gaze locked onto the Daily Prophet. "This Muggle-Wizard agreement took place over nine hundred years ago if it is even real. That's hardly applicable today."

Ginny continued to read as Hermione watched, perturbed by her change in expression. She didn't want to be rude or to snatch it away. It wasn't as if the news would change between Ginny reading it and when she'd get her turn. Instead, she focused on braiding her wet hair, to keep it knotted and out of her face while it dried.

She should cut it all off, it wasn't as if she ever let it out. There was never an event to wear it up or to do anything with it.

"Brunch, yeah?" Ginny smiled, the paper scrunched and tossed onto the table between them.

"May I read it before we go?"

"It'll just piss you off Hermione."

"Good," Hermione said, her tone scathing. The void left by Harry and Voldemort was almost worse than the war itself. It pained her to think that, but without Harry and a narrow threat to target, the Order was directionless.

They had been founded to fight against Voldemort, and they'd won in that regard. Many considered the battle to have been successful. The papers were excited by the idea that Voldemort had been defeated and that things were back to normal.

They were idiots. Or blind, or both.

Voldemort's ideologies remained within the Ministry. Pius Thicknesse continued to crack down on the Muggleborn population, as evidenced by a curt article that stated a property in Diagon Alley had been seized from an 'opportunistic thief' who'd set up shop during the chaos of the war. It labored on how Muggleborns failed to understand the system, and how they'd 'stolen' the property from their half-blood partner.

As Hermione began to read the featured article, her jaw tightened.

_The Ministry of Magic is pleased to announce that another successful pairing between a witch and a wizard of opposing bloodlines. The rift in the magical community, split by the clash between Harry Potter and You-Know-Who, has begun to mend through empathy and compassion. Mr. Gregory Goyle has extended great charity and kindness in his compliance in an arranged marriage based on the mercurial star signs lined on his wrist._

_"When I saw our stars aligned, I knew it was meant to be," Goyle said, a single tear in his eye. The newly minted Mrs. Goyle smiled and flashed the constellation of Eridarus, which glitters in the bright lights of our studio._

_"I'm so excited," said Mrs. Goyle. "To start my life in a real way. To be guided into the Wizarding community by someone who knows it better than I ever could."_

Hermione blinked out of time, her mouth popped open.

_The Marital Clause was struck early last year in an attempt to patch the fallout between our fractured world in the pursuit of a singular belief; the might of magic. While the public was wary of such a controversial method of alignment, there has been no broken vows and no complaints from those involved. Each pairing is beyond joyous. We wonder if an heir to the Goyle family will be arriving by the beginning of the new year._

_All young Muggleborn women are encouraged to participate, as growing concerns for their safety have been mounted. Three Muggleborn women this month have gone missing. The Ministry is unable to do anything about it, as they have no way to trace the girls or to account for their disappearance. Each of these girls was noted to have refused their evaluation summons, and as such, they are culpable for any harm that befalls them._

"I told you," Ginny said as she stared at Hermione.

"They're saying," her voice shook. "That if we don't agree to marry whoever they tell us to, that we'll die, and it's… It's our own fault."

Ginny stared down their oven, which had a few burnt stickers on the glass. Likely from a child who'd lived here previously.

"They're killing us," Hermione said. "Immediately, or slowly, they're killing us, Ginny."

"You've got the Order Hermione," she huffed through her nose, her arms crossed over her chest. "We won't let them take you."

Hermione wanted to believe her, but it was clear.

The Wizarding community didn't want her; it never wanted her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update schedule will be twice a week, Thursdays and Mondays! I just wanted to check another chunk out as I feel strange having a small chunk available.
> 
>  _Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last, you create what you will._  
>  \- George Benard Shaw

**Friday - August 4th, 2001.**

The front door to Obscurus Books swung open, as it anticipated the nudge from Hermione’s toe. Her arms were laden with the stationery she’d been asked to collect on behalf of the business. She didn’t hesitate as she rushed for the counter, to drop the bags into place.

A bottle of ink rolled out from the bag though Penelope caught it without taking her eyes off her book.

“You could use magic to carry things, you know.” She said as she turned over the bottle to examine it.

“I’m aware,” Hermione snapped, breathless. It wasn’t that long of a walk, and she feared she’d atrophy if she relied on magic for every little task.

“Hmm,” Penelope’s brow sharpened, a fine black arch over light blue eyes. She examined the goods from the bag with a cursory glance, though it was the same things each week. “Thank you.”

Hermione smiled and dug through the bags until she found the bagel she’d bought that morning with Ginny. She picked through the other bag to find the muffin she’d bought, which she set beside Penelope with a decisive nod.

“It's still quiet then?”

“We opened five minutes ago,” Penelope’s lips quirked as she unpacked the bags with a flick of her wand. Bottles of ink flew out alongside a few ledgers and a bottle of multipurpose cleaner. “It’s never busy in the mornings.”

Hermione flipped the corner of the dusty carpet that she’d rolled over in her haste. The stacks were empty save for the dozens of manuscripts and bound leather books. Several cushy armchairs sat beneath a wide latticed window, with small signs pressed against the glass.

Their business surged during the holidays and just before Hogwarts resumed. Otherwise, it was quiet and most orders arrived via owl from other bookstores, in other cities and even other countries.

The quiet suited Hermione.

“Tell me if you need me, then,” Hermione smiled as she vanished into the slim hallway that led to the offices.

Penelope’s office was large and light as it had a large glass window that led into the main part of the store. Mandy used Penelope’s office, though otherwise, she worked the front area as a sales assistant. Hermione was tucked away in the dark corner, behind a ward charm she’d established months ago. Her office was the last, smallest one. It was barely large enough for the scrappy, dated furniture.

There was a high, small small window that let in a fraction of light. She had enchanted window beside her desk with a simulated version of Muggle London. She liked the bustle and the visuals, as a way to inject visual interest in an otherwise dull room. She had debated what to make the vision outside, whether it could be a forest or Hogwarts itself, but neither appealed to her as they used to. A small, stubby cactus sat in a red terracotta pot with a harpy drawn on the side.

Her gaze skipped over the room, to her functional wooden desk to her sagging wooden shelves. She committed her office to memory each night, to make sure that no one had been in here. Paranoia mounted inside her chest each day as she surveyed it for spy devices or hidden Snatchers.

Nothing of note; nothing to see.

Except for the enchanted window and the tiny cactus that Ginny had given to her when she’s first gotten the job here.

She had permission to decorate, but it was like her apartment.

Everything had become dispensable and utilitarian.

She wasn't meant to exist.

She tossed her long braid over her shoulder before she dug into her purse. Her beaded purse had been useful in the war, and remained useful to this day. She stuck her arm into the bag to her shoulder, in search of the messy manuscripts she’d taken home to copy-edit and fact check.

Some were rejected on sight, while others required her careful investigation, to ascertain who had sent it in the first place.

She pulled out three, two of which she’d already mentally rejected.

Obscurus Books acted as a store and a publisher in one. Hermione focused on assessing manuscripts and — it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t her grand vision of her future, in the heart of the Ministry with magical law reforms in her eyes.

She had applied to the Ministry after she’d graduated from her Eighth year at Hogwarts. She had five glowing letters of recommendation and twelve NEWTs; eleven Outstandings and one Exceeding Expectations in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

They had rejected her outright with a form letter.

Her resentment of the Ministry mounted since then. She was glad they’d rejected her now, but it had stung at the time.

She carried two of her manuscripts across the room, to drop them into her bottomless trunk.

(It wasn’t truly bottomless, but it was deeper than any normal trunk.)

One had been about the merits of blood purity in child-rearing, which she refused based on her personal bias. She hadn’t read it and hadn’t needed to read it. If they could be prejudiced against her, then she would return the favor with gusto.

The second manuscript had been a fictional story about a mermaid who fell in love with a troll, and it was… Graphic. 

Hermione refused to represent it and refused to even send a rejection letter.

All she could think of poor Sally and that beast Goyle.

Her skin shivered with distaste.

The remaining manuscript was more complicated.

Hermione sat down in her rickety brown chair with the too-thin cushion. She drew her legs up to rest them against her desk, her hand pressed against her mouth.

So much misinformation had been published in the years since the Battle for Hogwarts. More than a dozen false biographies had been written about Harry. The number of times she had been accredited as his first kiss and his first sexual experience made her want to throw up. Ginny had been stuck between livid and jealous until she broke down in teary laughter.

Ron hadn’t talked to her for a week when he'd found out about it. He lifted his brow and snorted, and made a grand fuss about how it wasn’t funny. She argued that no one had said it was funny.

And they’d fought over it, too.

He shouted, she shouted, it was no different than usual.

Along with the false biographies with equally false interviews, there were ‘first-hand accounts’ of the Battle of Hogwarts. These presented a different sort of insult to her lingering injuries.

Each would claim to be an eye witness. They’d either be someone who wanted to exploit their position in the battlefield or they would lift a name of a student who’d fallen, to say it was an account they’d written with their dying breath.

As if no one would verify their claim.

This manuscript was different.

It wasn’t dramatized, for one thing. There was nothing special about the writing, per se, nor was it well-written.

It spoke about how the battle stilled and the courtyard turned to smoke. It got the silence that covered the grounds and the students tucked behind the body of the giant.

It even listed Hermione and Ron, with their arms full of fangs.

It was completely right until it wasn't.

_The smoke was so thick, I cast a bubblehead charm on myself. In the flash of the spell and the clarity of the air, I saw a Death Eater grab Harry’s hand, as he lay on the ground dead. They waved their wand and Harry blew apart._

_Whoever they were, they made sure Harry was dead. The bubblehead charm glimmered when a bone cracked against it._

_Then they vanished, clutching… Something._

_Someone._

This wasn’t a long piece. It may have been intended to be added to their Hogwarts Memoriam collection, which was a bi-annual publication where they’d include student accounts from the battle. Some were about the aftermath of the war or about their time with the Carrows.

Some people had suppressed their memories through trauma or battle damage. It wasn’t uncommon to receive accounts of the death of Harry and Voldemort which matched this description.

It was that detail; that a Death Eater had blown Harry up.

Her throat tightened at the thought.

It was a joke. It had to be.

She had a whole pile of rejected memoriam pieces. Some said that the giant squid came out to fight. Others said they saw Hermione giving a handjob to a Death Eater to spare her life. One piece claimed they saw Draco Malfoy at the final battle, which was another overt lie.

The Malfoys had vanished altogether the day their mansion had exploded, the same day the world ‘mudblood’ had been carved into her forearm. She massaged her scar through her robes, her brow set in a harsh line.

People would say the most ridiculous things to get published.

She tossed this aside, onto the pile of rejected manuscripts. Her head hurt.

…

By closing time, Hermione had made progress on two of her major projects. Not in full, but she had made a decent dent into the general structure and spelling.

The work itself was straight-forward. It was all she needed, given her focus was outside of work.

It was better than her week-long stint at Flourish and Blotts, where she’d been assaulted by a man with a stinging hex.

He’d asked her for a book from an upper shelf and he’d hexed her while her back was turned. She’d broken her wrist when she’d landed and hit her head on the way down.

Coward.

The manager had apologized to her, but she quit the next week. She didn’t like the dynamic of retail anyway, and it didn’t suit her to be so public. Not while people wanted her dead.

He could have killed her, if he wanted to.

Hermione collected her beaded purse and several children’s novels she’d plucked from the shelves during her break. She had also grabbed several textbooks that had been donated to the store by ex-Hogwarts students. The information was still good, just not as up to date as more recent publications.

She scrawled a note and fastened it to the cover of the book.

_Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last, you create what you will._

Once the books were tucked into her bag, she felt her stomach drop. She wished she could get more but it would be suspicious to buy dozens of textbooks.

She didn't even know if anyone read them.

She pretended they did.

Hermione made her way to the front desk where Penelope was reviewing a manuscript. It was about constellations in relation to history, how the stars moved. Constellations were treated as absolute, however, they shifted and changed depending on many factors.

It was slim and simple but would serve as a reference for First years. 

“Thank you for the textbooks,” Hermione said with a pleasant smile.

“Yes, well, I took it out of your pay,” Penelope said with a wave of her hand.

Hermione paused at the front counter, to scrape the sixty-five Galleons into her palm. She gave a wan smile as if Penelope were actually generous.

The reality was that Hermione made less than a thousand pounds a month, by her calculations.

Her rent was six hundred pounds; Ginny had to pay twelve hundred, twice the amount Hermione paid.

She promised to pay Ginny back once she was able to, but Ginny refused.

The Holyhead Harpies had struck a series of wins, and the salary she’d made from that had seen them through thus far. George and Ron had offered to help them pay, but Hermione refused. She didn’t want anyone’s help, but she couldn’t get a job anywhere else.

It was too dangerous.

Further to that, she refused to leave the Wizarding world. She refused to be intimidated out of the space or to recede into the Muggle world.

She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

It was a short walk to the Apparition zone, as established in each major magical location. It was unsafe to allow people to Apparate or Disapparate at will, though people would do it on occasion. Hermione didn’t want to risk a reason for the Ministry to track her movements. Instead, she jumped from the warded zone with sigils etched into the ground to a connected location.

She stood in the dark of an alleyway for a long moment, to make sure no one followed her. Once sure that she had arrived alone and remained alone, she stepped into the summer evening. A train station sat squarely across the road, a few dozen paces away. It was a train that she could feasibly use to travel to any other location in Muggle London. She always Apparated to different stations with algorithmic randomness.

There could be no patterns.

She pried her travel card from her wallet and stuffed her robes into her purse. No one noticed the robes or the way they vanished into her purse. It was peak time for travel, so dozens of Muggles in their pressed suits and neat hair all bustled left, right, up, down.

It was a mess, and exactly what she needed.

The meeting for the Order wasn’t due for another two hours. She’d need an hour to travel there and a further hour to walk aimlessly through the streets of London. Each week she did this, to lose her trail to the best of her ability. She never went straight home from work and she never Apparated there.

Their headquarters had shifted long ago from Grimmauld Place. It had been her fault, after all. She had Apparated into it with someone attached to her, she’d destroyed the secrecy with one stupid mistake.

They had tried to return there several weeks after the battle. Without Harry as the owner, the house refused them.

There was no sense in the location any longer, even if it had served as a key location for the Order. They had to let go of what had been to progress.

It was her fault they’d had to migrate from Grimmauld Place.

It was her fault for so many things.

She never Apparated if she could help it. She never went straight to her chosen location. These were a few of the rules that had piled up in her mind, as she felt the slight chill of the evening air.

It was a Friday night, so the streets were alive. It was strange to see people laugh and wonder, immune to the weight of a war that wasn’t theirs. She didn’t look at anyone for too long and she kept her head down.

By eight o’clock she had wound her way to the Order’s new base at the lower end of Blackwall.

She arrived alongside Ginny by chance, who had dirt all over her face and a deep thread of exhaustion through her features. She was in Muggle clothes, and her face looked tight. They didn’t speak, nor acknowledge one another. They kept their heads low and their faces obscured.

There was an Apparation point a few blocks away, but Hermione didn’t trust herself.

Not when she came from Diagon Alley with the looming eye of the Ministry over her. They needed a reason to get her, and she refused to give them one.

Anyone could latch onto her.

Her skin prickled in the evening air.

A man in a black trench coat was across the street, his head dipped away as he smoked.

She did her best to avoid looking at him, or catching his attention. It wasn’t difficult, she was unremarkable as a pedestrian. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, perhaps a little slim. She was so painfully common, she hardly picked herself out in group photos.

Though she loved her large brown mane and fierce auburn eyes. It just took time to hone in on, to focus and appreciate.

She felt the back of her neck warm, her head dropped lower. She shot a scowl over her shoulder, though all she saw was the man in black going the opposite way, too distant to pick out a face.

 _Your hair color hardly suits your skin tone,_ she thought. _You should see a different stylist._

Spite and fear caused strange thoughts to flow.

The girls stopped as they arrived at a run-down dive bar. The windows had been boarded up, which obscured the pictures of large breasted women with suggestive names. The posters had been bleached so bright in the sun that it was hard to tell if they were shirtless or not.

Hermione tapped a pattern into the nine-paned window, much like a padlock on an electronic security door.

Once the pattern finished, the panes lit up. Rather than swing open, the whole door shimmered. They walked through the seemingly solid door as if it were mist.

The bar was expanded beyond logic. All three floors now segmented and stuffed full of people and pets.

The first floor was dedicated to housing anyone on the run from the Ministry for infractions.

The entrance split, so that those who were staying here didn’t have to feel like they were in the way. A wide arch led into an open bar floor with walls of mirrors that had been obscured by washing or sheets. Four lines of twelve cots extended, with curtains strung to provide privacy.

This wasn’t a permanent residence, but it acted as an intermediate location until they could ferry people to their contacts in France.

The scent of life was like vinegar and skim milk. A girl with golden hair played on the floor with a piece of enchanted rope that turned into a snake, then a quill, then a toy sword. Her brother sat beside her, with the same crooked smile and blond curls, his eyes wide with wonder as his sister transfigured the rope. It was impressive, though Hermione wagered it was a toy wand that George had left in the donations box last week.

They giggled and shoved one another and Hermione’s lips twitched. She unpacked several books from her bag, to set them on a nearby cot with the note she’d written at work. She never put her name on the books, but she didn’t have to.

It wasn’t about her.

Ginny waited for Hermione before they ascended to the second floor. All the food and potions preparation happened on this floor, as evidenced by the sickly smell of rot and roast. It was a rich, too-much sort of smell, one that made her nose wrinkle and her eyes water. As they passed by towards the final staircase, she couldn't pick anything out.

Nothing distinct, except for the deep tar-like stench of burnt iron and spice.

The Order kept their tactical areas away from those who they were protecting. The third floor was warded and was the most laborious extension of all. It had been a rickety attic with nothing but insulation and a copious amount of heroin needles when they’d moved in.

They’d cleared out the floor and added walls until it looked much as the two lower floors did. The ceiling was lower, though, and made Hermione panic if she was alone.

“Work was alright?” Ginny had her hands in her pockets. She had black jeans and a leather jacket on, with a baseball cap that kept her hair out of her face. She was taller than Hermione, with thicker limbs and a sense of mass to her.

“Much the same as ever,” Hermione said, idle. “Practice was…?”

“Great,” Ginny said, her smile purposeful. “Fine.”

They entered the main Order meeting room, which featured a far too long table for how few key members they had left. Remus and Tonks were seated at one end. George and Molly were at the other. Both pairs had a child between them, with Ted asleep against Tonks’ chest while Molly held Victoire in much the same way.

"Mione," Percy nodded once, hollowly.

“Oh, good, good, hello,” Molly said, her voice shaking. Her voice often shook, as she’d been tortured last summer for information about Harry. As if she had anything further than the pieces of him that turned to ash.

It was by the good graces of her blood status that she’d survived.

“Hey mum,” Ginny said as she approached, to wrap her arms around them both. Remus and Tonks nodded, but they were in the midst of a quiet discussion.

Hermione took a seat at the table. She wanted to relax, but such a thing wasn’t possible here. The more people they ferried here to protect, the thinner their odds of remaining undetected became.

A photo sat on the table in front of them, a smiling family photo from their trip to Egypt. Hermione picked it up, to examine the past. It was clipped from their third year at Hogwarts, just before it. It was strange to see George with two ears.

"They're due back tonight, aren't they? For the meeting?" Ginny shucked off her coat, which she tossed at Percy.

Charlie, Fred, George, Bill, Fleur — they were all out on a mission at once. It was cruel to send so much of her family out at once. Victoire curled into Molly's chest as yawned, wide and loud, and Hermione's chest ached.

She wasn't one for maternal instincts necessarily, but the child was angelic. She'd wager it was her mother's Veela nature at work. She was cherubic and pale in contrast to the deep mustard sweater that Molly wore.

"That was what their last report said," he smiled, wooden, with the jacket tossed behind him.

"Ron here yet?" Ginny hummed, her arms crossed over her chest.

Percy strained his jaw as his gaze darted to his mother.

"Ah, he will be, I'm sure -- " Ginny swallowed hard enough for it to be visible.

The Weasleys were such a broad, numerous family. They considered Harry as good as family, given how close he was to Ginny and Ron. In different ways, ways that Hermione failed to match.

Hermione got up from the table. She had been seated all day and the anxiety of a mostly empty meeting room after their allotted meeting time…

She didn’t want to pace. It’d just worry Molly.

Instead, she dug her fingers into a corkboard nearby to pick at rusted tack. It had a list of names beneath it, expected routes and patrol times. None of these people were still active in the Order, whether through their sense of duty being completed, or forcibly retired.

Or they were dead, but she skipped past that thought.

She didn't come to Order meetings to lean into tragedy. She came to secure a clean defeat, rather than relax into the lull of an inactive battlefield.

"You haven't been asked to go to that evaluation thing they're doing, have you?" Molly wrapped her arms tight around her granddaughter. Victoire fussed against the pressure and Hermione had to look away.

"No."

“Do you think they will?”

Hermione’s lips quirked. “They’d need to know my address for that.”

The sound of heavy footfall came from just outside the room. It was enough to draw each of their wands, as shouts and growls bounced through the limited space. Snape appeared through the wide double doors, followed by Ron, who was red in the face.

“They can’t have her!”


	3. Chapter 3

Teddy fussed in Tonks's grip. "He just fell asleep," she whined as her head angled backward so that her chin was angled at the ceiling. As Teddy woke up, he wailed, and Victoire joined the chorus.

It was a feedback loop of the children, screaming to one another.

Not only the crying children, of course. The Weasleys had begun to complain to one another about the delays, as half their family was out. What if something had happened? The panicked whines and wails of Mrs. Weasley added to the too-loud mess, and Hermione felt calloused for the thought.

But shouting wasn't helping -- not as the Aurors spoke louder, then the Weasleys, then the children...

Hermione sank into her seat, her hair bristled around her face as she tried to drown out the peripheral sound to pick apart the conversation between Ron and Snape.

She couldn't hear them, but she could see their lips moving.

She got pieces of it; not enough.

"Say it again Snape, I dare you." Ron was louder, easier to hear.

"-- misunderstand me?" Snape's lips twitched as if he'd love to smile but was sworn against such an act.

"I must've -- you said you had that shit under lock, so you lied, which puts -- "

"-- mistake."

An agreement and a mistake, about what?

Whispers, low speech, her teeth grit as she strained her ears.

Ron's red ears, his wand in Snape's face through the propped open door. Snape appeared intrigued if anything, his gaze fixed to Ron's.

As if he'd love to see what Ron had up his sleeve.

(An excuse to level Ron.)

The children cried themselves out in rapid succession, which lightened the tone of the room. Victoire followed Teddy's lead as if she'd just been screaming to scream. Proudfoot, Jones and Doge had since stopped the discussion of their reports to turn a wary eye towards Ron and Snape.

"'Least they quietened down, hm?" Ginny stroked Victoire's cheek with the back of her index finger.

"If we didn't send mothers on missions..." Molly left the words unspoken. "I tell you, mothers do so much for the children by nature alone."

Tonks gave a weak laugh at Molly's comment. Everyone was scattered and tired.

But Hermione hadn't taken her gaze off Snape.

Not once.

“My apologies for the delay. There were…” Snape paused, as Ron shoved past him with his shoulder. Snape's lips mouth twitched around a suppressed curse, as Ron sat down beside Hermione. “Suspicious figures by the door.”

“Suspicious figures?” Remus said, his voice thin. The fool moon was tomorrow.

“They were low-rank Snatchers. I imagine it was a random patrol to bait an attack. See who appears, if anyone.” Snape said, his tone even. “I’ve Obliviated them so that they know they inspected the area but found nothing. Killing them would have been more suspicious.”

Ron inched his chair closer to Hermione. She had stood up in her restless wait for the others to arrive, and now she regretted it. His large hand latched onto her wrist.

"Ron, what're you doing," she jumped as he pulled her closer, his arm around her thighs.

Hermione squinted down at him, though he kept his attention on Snape.

He never touched her, even less hugged her.

Not for months.

She allowed it, if only because she was worried he’d shout again. She swallowed hard, her heartbeat against her rib cage so painful she might pass out.

An agreement, a mistake -- they can't have her.

Hermione didn't like the pieces she'd been given. She didn't like the physical contact either, as it was irritating more than endearing.

The group continued to patter around topics, but nothing of note. Their meetings often sat like this, quiet and meek, reliant on a group who may not come back.

“They’ll be here soon,” Percy said, his hand rested against Molly’s.

"Why send them to Romania," Molly fussed with Victoire's bow, which she kept trying to put into her mouth.

Hermione sat in silence as the room flitted with a conversation about Snatchers and Death Eaters. It was the same information each week, that they were torturing suspected Order members. The Order had been held up as some Muggle Rights group, out to steal magic from the real wizards, which Hermione found laughable and thin.

The Snatchers never managed to find real Order members; she had to wonder if they were trying. They would pick out random Gryffindors or Muggle sympathizers, anyone who seemed concerned about what the Ministry was up to. The stranglehold the Daily Prophet had on media along with the inelegant touch of the Snatchers made everything tense and miserable.

Younger members were nigh impossible to find, for fear that the Snatchers would turn up to their door.

Hermione had stopped recruiting people in February after the Marital Clause became active. She had never been good at it anyway, and now all she went out for were intel missions around London or for work. The other Order members still tried, with their ears pressed to the doors and walls, as if they'd hear a murmur of dissent.

Beyond the inefficient hunt for Order members, the Snatchers staged assassinations of Muggleborn landowners around London. They were labeled as random acts of violence by Muggles, which provided the Daily Prophet with more gruesome new than it knew how to handle.

They published horror stories about guns and knives, about the horrific torture that these poor Muggleborns endured by Muggles who found out they were magical. Sometimes it was knifes, or guns. But they tended to lean on crueler methods. Bike chains. Golf clubs. One girl had her nails torn out and shoved into her eyes and -- Hermione had started to skip those articles, for how violent they became.

It was always the same; prolonged suffering.

Things that would take time to kill people.

Their meetings had become a series of long-winded guessing games. They would wonder about the Snatchers and the Ministry, and when the next attack would occur. But they hadn't really done anything aggressive as of late. They never attacked locations, they never put the pressure onto the other side.

The Order was about saving those few who landed in their nets. Orphaned children, or people who were too old to fight back. It was a charity wrapped in the skin of the past. The Order had been for action and championing causes; now they sat, and they waited, and they pried open the Daily Prophet to lament.

But Hermione didn't leave the house otherwise.

Today, they'd wound around to the story of a young girl Muggleborn girl had been hung in her room at the Leaky Cauldron. They said she'd married a Muggle man. That the Muggle man snapped when he found out she was magical, then tore her apart, hung her, beat her, the details were excessive.

Yaxley was the prevalent theory, for what good that did them. He was deeply protected, for his proximity to the Minister of Magic.

But this was old news.

It was better to dwell on old information than process new tragedies.

Things weren’t getting worse, at least.

Hermione slid the corner of an Auror report, to eye the photos of five men split open from throat to the sternum, bled out. Their Dark Marks had been turned into writhing black masses, that wove like veins along their arms, along their throats.

Hermione didn't know if that was normal; for Dark Marks to grow after death.

They didn't know who was killing Death Eaters in France. They had contacts with Fleur's family, whose parents helped place those who arrived from Britain as displaced victims. For some reason that wasn't their focus nor their topic. It was instead a round table discussion about the Muggleborn girl hung at the Leaky Cauldron.

Five Death Eaters, laid alongside one another, split open, massacred.

She pushed the paper away.

Ron kept a firm grip on Hermione’s wrist and a firm gaze on Snape.

“Oi,” he made a thick noise from the back of his throat. “Are you gonna tell her?” His head bumped into her elbow.

“As I said, it isn’t confirmed,” Snape’s gaze bore into Ron’s. “There's no reason to worry her.”

“Tell me what?” Hermione said, her voice leaped up an octave. She cleared her throat and yanked her wrist away from Ron, her thick brows scrunched together. “It’s about me, isn’t it. Just say it, or I'll scream.”

“Did you get the letter already?” Ron paled.

“No, you’ve been holding my wrist for the past twenty minutes,” she snorted, her gaze snapped to Snape. “What letter?” She asked though she knew the answer already.

“You’ve been noted as a person of interest for the Marital Clause.” His tone was neither sympathetic or pleased. It didn’t sound any different from usual, as if this wasn’t worth the effort. It was rare for him to linger in any emotion. She was surprised if she saw his face move at all.

"A person of interest," she echoed.

“Which means that they’ve found your address.”

Hermione felt the air disappear from the room, along with the light and sound. At first, she thought she’d gone deaf, but no one was moving.

Instead, they stared with parted lips and horror in their eyes.

But she’d been so careful.

The past six months had been filled with dread, low in the back of her mind. The conversation resumed around her, about her, but she didn’t hear it. She stared at the wood table in front of her, etched with curse words and slurs from whatever tables they’d transfigured together for it.

Why hadn’t someone cleared off the slurs at least?

Her hand defaulted to her right forearm.

“ — refuse to let her go,” Ron slapped his hands on the table, out of his seat.

“It isn’t up to you,” Remus said, his voice wavered. “It’s up to Hermione to decide, should she receive the letter.”

"How can you say that," Ginny's voice rattled in her throat, torn between anger and tears. 

“It isn’t much of choice, now is it!” Ron’s nails dug into the table, anger on her behalf.

"But it is her choice," Remus repeated. "We can't force her into hiding. We can do our best to help her, but it's her safety, and her choice."

Hermione wanted to laugh at that; her choice?

Was it now.

She appreciated their indignance.

She couldn’t find it in herself to be angry.

Not right now.

“Person of interest doesn't mean they want you for it necessarily,” Ginny said, with the flap of her hands enough to catch Hermione’s vacant gaze.

Hermione hadn’t spoken yet. Snape’s gaze burrowed into her, past her defenses, and she didn’t much care.

She welcomed it, her eyes widened and her mouth popped open as she tried to think. But even that failed, as the sensation of heat returned as if she’d been wrapped in a warm blanket.

The room had felt so cold, before.

Now it was too small, too hot and the ceiling felt like it may fall on her. Like she'd stubbed her toe on a rogue heroin needle and she'd overdosed by mistake.

“The Ministry has become more brazen with their Marital Clause,” Proudfoot said with a low croak in her voice.

"I don’t see how anyone could support it," Molly said, her words sharp in the quiet. "As if anyone would be happy to see their children forced off like that."

“Arranged marriages have always existed in wizarding families,” Jones said, as she picked through her notebooks. She was still an Auror, through the virtue of her blood status. She wasn’t married, Hermione thought in a dim way.

She wondered if the pureblood witches would be forced to marry next, or the halfbloods.

Or would this remain a Muggleborn punishment.

“It didn’t with the Prewetts,” Molly said with a tang of pride to her voice.

"I fear that pureblooded families have been groomed to believe they’re doing a service," Proudfoot said. "That their superior genes, as they believe, will remedy the Muggleborn affliction. As per their words and beliefs," Proudfoot waved a hand, as if to excuse the opinion.

Her stack of pilfered Auror reports sat on the table, which listed the locations of detained people of interest. Some were genuine criminals, while others were murkier. Jones, Doge and Proudfoot had taken several reports each to sift through, but they sat untouched.

The Marital Clause was a topic the Order had firmly avoided, and it made Hermione’s stomach turn.

“Death Eaters can’t afford to exclude halfbloods,” Snape interlaced his fingers on the table. "While pureblood is revered, a mix of magical and mundane is more acceptable than a Muggleborn," he spoke from experience, though Hermione didn’t doubt that purebloods were treated as a step above halfbloods.

“The numbers speak for themselves,” Remus’s lips twitched as he met Hermione’s eye. "Attack the few to win the favor of many."

Of all the people in the room, he best understood her. Hermione knew no Muggleborns personally, not that she spoke to regularly.

"I don't see the benefit in it, for anyone.” Percy furrowed his brow.

"There isn't one," Proudfoot's watery voice wove a gentle contrast to Molly's outrage. She had been an Auror before the war, though she was in her late sixties now. She'd been encouraged into early retirement last year.

“Why do it?” Tonks frowned, her hand rested against Ted’s head. He’d fussed from the noise but had since calmed down. His hair was rainbows beneath her fingers, with purple sparkles across his cheeks. They shifted in his sleep with each stroke from Tonks’ hand, from green, to yellow, to blue.

“Because they can,” Ginny snorted.

“It's about hurting others more than you hurt yourself," Ron said, his throat tense. "Like, yeah, they’re mixing purebloods with Muggleborns, but their kids’ll be halfbloods… Y’know?"

"The exclusions have shifted," Hermione said, her voice soft. "The only consistent factor to the husbands is that they're Death Eaters."

"Not even pureblood?" Ron snapped, before he realized how awful that sounded. "Not that blood matters, but it matters to them -- you get my point."

"Most of their ranks are halfbloods at this point... Bringing Muggleborn girls into arrangements with upper members of the Death Eaters... It's incentive to move up in the ranks and allows the halfbloods to feel represented," Hermione added, thoughtlessly.

“It's all just a big fuckin' distraction,” Ron gestured wide at her with a loose fist, his tongue flush against his gums.

"A distraction," Percy pursed his lips. "From what?"

"Okay, not a distraction exactly, but -- something big and easy to get annoyed about," Ron corrected, his hands raised. "While also splitting our ranks, weakening families... It's a foundational attack."

“Impressive,” Snape’s lips twitched which broke into an awful sneer. “It’s been six months and you’ve finally worked it out.”

Silence took over the room. Dode, Jones and Proudfoot continued to flick through their reports as they circled locations and crossed out names. Reports about ex-Aurors they thought might be killing the Death Eaters who'd been tasked with bleeding through the French countryside.

Molly kept a nervous eye on the door, while Ginny and Percy stroked her shoulders and her hand in a balanced effort.

Ron had taken Hermione’s hand into his, which she allowed because the room was silent and she wanted to keep it that way.

It didn’t make her stomach flutter or her cheeks warm. It was an apology from him if she were to guess. If they had worked out, she wouldn’t be in this mess. His eyes said it all, as he looked at her ring finger to her eyes in a loose circle.

"I see no point in resisting if I’m summoned," Hermione said, her voice empty.

"What d'you mean?" Ron snapped. "Of course there's a point! It's your life, Hermione, not some game."

Hermione shot him a sharp look, her chin dropped and her eyes wide.

"You can't go through with it."

"If they’ve found my apartment, they know where I live. No doubt they could find me again unless I quit my job and refuse to leave the house." Her voice grew small and withdrawn.

“Quit your job, come live with me and the twins, we’ve got room.”

“So you can trap me instead?" Hermione withdrew her hand from his, to cross her arms. “It had to end someday – let it be on my terms.”

"It'd only be for a little while," Ron waved a hand at her, as if she'd said yes.

"If they summon me, I doubt they'll expect me to turn up. They'll want a reason to make a show of me, they'll want me to run or to fight," Hermione pressed on, her cheeks red. "You of all people must realize that."

A loud series of footsteps sounded from outside the room as the recon team returned.

Hermione sunk into her seat as the group cheered and greeted one another. The air was thick with sound and joy, as if her news had been evaporated from the heat of their affection. Fred and George barked with laughter, Fleur floated over to her daughter — she didn’t look like a woman who’d given birth three months ago, as she was even thinner than she had been even before her pregnancy.

Snape kept his gaze on Hermione, singularly, as if there were more he wanted to say to her.

Instead took his leave, so as to make room for the recon team to sit.

Hermione would have followed him, were it not for Ron's grip on her wrist.

“We don’t think ol’ Mouldy’s body was there. No dark signatures, nothing as dark as he’d be, if they'd tried any rituals,” Fred said, his tone flippant. “We didn’t think they’d keep him there either, but we thought maybe they’d leave a finger or something behind. He's gotta be falling apart by now, mustn't he?"

"Creep old fucker -- and why go to the heart of a Romanian forest if you're not gonna do a damn ritual!” George threw his hands up, as if to further Fred's point.

“Zey cannot be moving ze body,” Fleur took Victoire from Molly, to press delicate kisses to her temple. “Zhere is no point I theenk, to treat ‘im like luggage. Even if zey do bring him back, 'e will be so furious.”

“I still think he’ll be wherever Bellatrix is,” George massaged his neck, which bore a dark red mark that met the base of his ear hole. “Bet she cuddles with him at night or something sick like that.”

“Yeah, I mean, Snape was right, they’d been there, but not for a long time,” Fred continued, his arms crossed over his chest. “Been a while since he’s given us anything useful, hasn’t it.”

“Well, it wasn’t wrong, just… Late,” Bill said with a low growl. “Least we got some scope of how wide their operations have spread.”

They talked and talked, and Hermione felt so useless.

All she did was sit outside warehouses and cry.

Hermione refused to look up from her hands as they described the abandoned Snatcher base they’d ransacked. She needed to hold her ground, to assert herself. This wasn't going to be a tragedy, of a young maiden bartered off to save a village from a monster.

This was going to be the end of the war, whether it was in their favor or not.

  
**Wednesday, August 8th, 2001.**

Hermione hadn't slept much lately.

This wasn't new. She rarely slept more than four hours a night, given that the Ministry had become aware of her home. But she didn't have anywhere else to stay, she didn't want to be a burden on the Weasleys, and she refused to reach out to Snape. She didn't know Remus and Tonks that well --

Hermione pushed aside her panic spiral, of how she had cut herself off from everyone. It was fine. She was fine. She would find a way around this without a trip to Azkaban.

(She privately doubted that any girl actually _made_ it to Azkaban.)

Snape mentioned it because he thought it was a real possibility. And so she woke each morning with tension in her shoulders and dark circles beneath her eyes.

She dodged the Ministry in the past as her home address wasn’t on any official documentation within their records. Not since her apartment with Ginny at Primrose Hill last autumn. She had her wand license assigned to her Muggle home, which was a ransacked shack she’d not been back to in months. She was sure a pile of letters had formed in the living room, and she hadn’t found it in herself to care.

Not really, not enough for her to go, lest someone be on the hunt for her.

It hurt too much to see her bedroom in tatters.

If she happened to need something posted to her, whether it was ingredients or books, she had a postal box. It was seated in a small Muggle village a few Apparation points away from her true home. It was rare for her to receive pressing mail via the post and she never ordered things. No one wrote socially to her, and she had lost what few penpals she’d gained from her Fourth year. It had been easy to disappear further off the grid, even if she had to year thick cloaks and hide her face while at work.

She never got mail, not unless it was a death threat with a weak curse locked inside the envelope. It was practical to keep her address something detached from her, specifically.

Even if she had to mildly Confound the Post Office staff into believing she was an eighty-year-old woman named Millicent.

This letter, however, arrived by way of owl in the early morning. The windows were splayed open to combat the warm August morning, on the cusp of autumn.

The great horned owl collided with their wire laundry rack, which Hermione had laid out to air her sheets on. In an attempt to right it's path, it slammed into Ginny's cereal.

Ginny's expression scrunched as she jumped up, her hands in motion as she cleaned the milk that has splashed over her.

"Poor thing," Hermione crooned until dread fell from her throat to her stomach. She looped at Ginny, her mouth pursed small and tight.

"Not one of ours," Ginny licked her lips apart, her gaze locked to the Ministry letter clasped in it's talons.

It sensed their concern and scrambled to right itself, a nasty look shot at both of them. Were it not soaked in milk, it would have been a handsome owl.

"Here," Hermione waved a hand to clean it off, to which it ruffled it's feathers. The owl hopped a few steps closer to Hermione. It waited for her to extend her hand, as it dropped the letter neatly into her expectant palm.

"Prissy isn't he," Ginny said softly as it took flight. It flicked her across the face with it's wing and took off through the gap in the window, cautious not to collide with the wire rack again.

Hermione couldn't bring herself to open the letter.

Her fingers were shaking too much.

"We don't have to open it."

"I want to."

Ginny's mouth snapped shut.

Hermione set the letter against the small potted plant on their table. She stared at it throughout breakfast, despite Ginny's insistent eye contact. Hermione felt stupid to be afraid of it, but it could be any number of things. It could be a court summons or a question from Penelope.

Maybe it was good news, she deluded herself.

When she couldn't eat and couldn't look away from it any longer she relented. She wriggled her fingers in a familiar pattern, one that would scan the envelope for traps.

It was safe, though the contents were far from that.

"I'm being requested for evaluation," Hermione said, her mouth dry. “Snape has to be right about everything, mustn’t he.”

"Oh," Ginny hadn't needed her to say it.

Hermione felt her expression warp between furrowed and too wide, as she willed herself not to cry.

"We gonna have t'move again?" Ginny asked, her voice fragile.

Hermione looked at their tiny kitchen and their mismatched furniture. Each time they moved they lost their deposit and kept only their essentials.

Ginny wasn't such a problem, not on her own. While she had romantic ties to Harry, she was a pureblood. While a blood traitor and a member of the Order, she was more likely to be survive for the sheer reverence that Pure-blooded folk had for lineage.

They'd kill all her brothers before they'd kill her, Hermione wagered.

Not that Ginny would take such a thing lying down.

No, Hermione was the thumbtack wedged into the side of the enemy. She, along with Ron, were Harry's confidants. They had destroyed horcruxes and been known lovers, not to mention their unmistakable place beside Harry at that final battle.

And if they believed the false biographies, they thought she had given Harry _everything_.

Hermione was far easier to hate, as she represented everything the fragmented Death Eaters loathed.

"We can’t afford to move again," Hermione said in a weak voice. "There's no immediate danger. We’d be dead if that’s what they wanted."

"But how did they find us?"

"I don't know," Hermione worried her thumb and forefinger together, as the heavy weight parchment brushed against her skin. "Perhaps we have a spy."

“The lease’s up in December. We can make it ‘til then,” Ginny winced, her arms crossed over her chest. She flashed a glance at the wall, where their kitchen clock sat. "I've got practice in half an hour, but -- "

"No, please, there's no reason to skip out on your work," Hermione rocked her head forward to star at her fingers. She'd broken the habit of chewing her nails years ago, but the urge resurfaced.

"You can always come to me, if you need to. You know the stadium."

It was a few jumps away, however. She'd have to flash to Coventry, then to the stadium itself. It wasn't so drastic as to be impossible, but she'd need ten or so minutes to relax between jumps so as to arrive without fainting.

"I'll be okay," Hermione said, her voice light. She remained seated, the letter clutched between brittle fingers.

"Send word if you need me?"

"I will." Hermione gave Ginny a tight smile. "I just need to process it -- think about it, rather."

Ginny gave a short nod before she vanished with a pop.

Hermione sat at her small kitchen table.

Her proximity to Harry made her a trophy to a Death Eater. Her skin scrawled as she re-read the letter. It was just a location at St. Mungo's, which eased her nerves, but not much. The words 'Marital Clause' and 'recommended attendance' stood out to her. As if she had a choice.

She had seen the papers; about the girls who skipped around the evaluations.

They wound up hung, with their own nails in their eyes.

Hermione banished her untouched breakfast and slipped into her bedroom. It smelled of vanilla and sandalwood from the small decor candle she'd burn. The candle melted at a far decreased speed, much like the candles in the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

She couldn’t think about Hogwarts.

A selfish part of her wished that one of the Professors would retire so she could step in. In the unlikely event, she was matched up with someone, she'd be able to eschew the majority of their marriage by sheer responsibility alone. Or she could sabotage herself with some desperate ailment, and no Death Eater would want her.

They'd cheat, she'd have grounds for divorce, it'd be over before she knew it.

If there was a match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry -- I had an altercation with the chapter system -- deleted a chapter by mistake, have to repost it. ;-; I also had to re-edit this chapter because of that, so it may be a little different. The core is the same but I had changed some phrases and... I made an oopsie while trying to fix something.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, you may have noticed several emails about the chapters and also the fact that your comments disappeared from chapter one; Ao3 and I had a fight, wherein I deleted things by mistake and ended up having to shuffle stuff around, so 1) I am sorry for the spam and 2) why Ao3.

**Friday — August 10th, 2001.**

Hermione spent her night restless.

She picked through old plans she’d made in February. The second she'd caught word of a marriage program within the Ministry, her dwindling need to survive had been stoked. She had picked apart ideas and come up with one -- only one.

She had thought she might elude the Marital Clause by going to Australia in search of her parents.

The plan itself wasn't the problem.

If she were to travel to Australia before her name was brought up for an evaluation, she’d be able to go over there. But the Muggleborn girls involved in the process were considered politically charged, and if she were to go to Australia… There was a slim chance she would be recalled. And then her parents would find out about it. That is, if she could find them.

And if she couldn’t find them, she’d have run from the fight for nothing.

Less than nothing.

The other issue with her plan was what she had found in her search for her parents. She had hidden them well, so much so that it had taken a considerable chunk of her limited funds to request intel as a favor or a transaction. She had to space it out, over time, and she didn't know who to trust.

The parchment she’d etched her plans into were layered, with notes and extra tabs attached with coordinates. It was still possible…

Her gaze landed on the small article, which featured the deaths of two British immigrants who had moved several years ago. They were found mangled by wolves, which weren’t native to any part of Australia.

The story was picked up by the Daily Prophet as a further example of how ill-equipped Muggles were to defend themselves from wolves, not to mention werewolves, and it spiraled.

In the limited information about the Muggles, she found out their arrival dates, their hair and eye colors...

It matched up. Too much of it, so much that she didn't want to know.

But they were the same age, same physical descriptors —

She grit her teeth.

Hermione preferred it this way. This hopeless, small way, that her parents weren’t a liability. That they were out there, happy and healthy. That her search for information hadn't led to their death.

And that uncertainty of what she'd find over there tore out the impulse to run, because what was the use in running?

She had nowhere to go. No friends overseas. No family. Her Hogwarts grades were thrown into question as the accreditation of her Eighth year became part of a larger scandal. 

She’d been doing that for three years now. She was tired of running.

...

Hermione arrived at St. Mungo’s that morning with panic buried deep in her chest. She refused to walk in with her head hung low or to act meek.

And so she acted.

Her chin raised and her eyes narrowed as she strutted through the illusionary wall.

As if this were her choice.

The lobby had bright signs plastered across it about magical children. It showed a beautiful witch with long black hair with a little girl who matched her in green robes. They smiled at her knowingly as she passed by, and she wanted to tear the poster down -- but she kept on her path.

Their eyes bore into the back of her head, she could feel them. She had found animated portraits and posters exciting when she'd arrived at Hogwarts. Now they felt Orwellian.

Her chin jutted higher as she approached the front desk.

“Welcome to St. Mungo’s — wait, Granger!” Her voice dropped into a gasp.

Hermione stared at her with no idea who she was.

She had steeled herself for a clinical person with a clipboard and a stern expression, who’d ask her questions and measure her arms. Something arbitrary and clinical.

Instead, she stared down a supposed peer, who must have been at least a year younger than her. Her hair was wrapped in tight blond coils atop her head though Hermione could see where her hair turned brown at the roots.

“Er, yes,” Hermione cleared her throat, her letter in hand. “I’m here for the evaluation.”

“Oh, I know you are, everyone's talking about it — oh this is so exciting, aren’t you excited?” She ran her finger down a list and marked it off. Her arm snapped out towards the left as she spoke too quickly for Hermione to follow.

The signs were clear, with giant glittering silver arrows.

“Do I need to sign in, or…”

“No, this is a Ministry matter, they’ve got all the paperwork,” she waved both her hands. “Oh, but, I will need you to sign in for a pass,” she added with a poke of her finger into Hermione’s shoulder.

Hermione's eyes narrowed; so yes, she did have to sign in.

She didn't know why she was picking this poor girl apart. She just sat wrong with Hermione, with her sharp features and her soft smile.

Hermione signed her name once on an innocuous ledger, and pinned the 'visitor' pass to her chest.

“Do you remember when you deducted points from me?” The girl said, her hands planted on the desk. "It was my Fourth year. You were so cross, it was so funny."

“No,” Hermione said, her tone indifferent.

“Guess,” her smile sweetened and Hermione looked away.

“I have an appointment,” Hermione said in a level tone. “I don’t have time to play guessing games.”

"One guess, and I'll tell you."

"You broke curfew," Hermione lobbed back, a strange mix of polite and cruel.

“No."

Hermione flexed her brow, already several steps towards the glittering arrows.

"You caught Draco and I kissing behind a tapestry,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper that forced Hermione to step back towards her.

"So I was correct -- "

"I was trying to break more than curfew," she blushed and laughed and Hermione was sure she was meant to laugh too.

Instead, she rushed off, her mind in motion as she tried to repress that dreadful Prefect patrol.

That had been Sixth year. She hadn’t had any idea who had been behind the tapestry. It had been two sets of legs pressed against a wall. She had almost thrown up when she realized she’d interrupted Malfoy of all people mid-snog with a Fourth year.

She expected better of him, than to take advantage of the younger girls.

He looked at her as if he weren’t even aware of what had happened or where he was. Empty, like he'd just woken up. Or sick. Beneath his chin, The Girl blushed and giggled. She'd buried her face into his shirt, and he stared at Hermione like a sick dog begging to be put down.

He looked miserable to be there, but given his Sixth year, he looked miserable to be anywhere.

And then it was anger; at her, at The Girl, he tore the tapestry off as he stalked away. The Girl followed and giggled and blushed and Hermione didn't see her again until just now.

But that had been a week before the cabinets had been used. A week before Dumbledore died.

That tapestry.

It was on the Seventh Floor, nearby the Room of Requirement.

Hermione should have reached out to him, even if he’d have bullied her more for it. He had been suffering and she watched as he fell apart. She hadn't even been able to enjoy it. He had bullied her, she should enjoy seeing him miserable, but her core told her it was unkind to enjoy the misfortune of others.

Unless they had done something to you; and Malfoy had called her names, but that was as far as his bullying went.

He hadn’t identified them. He had looked her in the eye and said he didn’t know her, that he couldn’t be sure.

But then his mansion tore apart with seismic Dark Magic, so powerful the whole place was a blackened crater.

It was too late for that now.

The glittery arrows pivoted so that four were angled towards one door.

Hermione hadn’t been able to knock on the door, as it swung open by her fist's proximity.

“Ah, Ms. Granger,” a sickly sweet voice said. “Ms. Greengrass notified me you’d arrived. Come in, come in!”

She should have run.

A trap enclosed her, though not in any visible sense. She felt it like a vice around her chest and inside her mind. It was psychosomatic, she wasn’t trapped, she was going to be okay, she could survive a stupid evaluation and prove that she was unlovable.

It would be easy.

“Don’t be shy, please,” Umbridge said. Hermione had never heard the word ‘please’ sound so cruel. “We are very busy, dear.”

Hermione stepped forward with mechanical steps, her throat tight as she stood before the simple white desk with metal legs. She had been so distracted by the toad of a woman wrapped in pink.

Umbridge waited as if she expected Hermione to say hello or to show any manner of excitement. She struck Hermione as an unloved aunt, one who gave you clothes that were too small at Christmas. She’d tell you that you just need to lose a little weight, then they’d fit.

The corners of Umbridge’s mouth flickered as her true face showed; tense, angry, cruel. It melted like a wax figure back to sweetness, as if she liked Hermione.

“As you can see, I’m quite well in spite of your tricks. Thank you for that, by the way — those centaurs gave me ample reason to evict them,” she turned on her heel, the corners of her lips drawn like knives.

They’d been killed. Hermione wasn’t stupid enough to ask about them or to be hopeful. She had them executed for whatever they’d done to her.

“Sit.”

Hermione remained standing, her brow set in a firm line.

“Interesting,” Umbridge pressed on, her fingers interlocked on the desk as she sat. “You wouldn’t be quiet in school for more than two seconds. Now, you’re quieter than the dead! Quieter than H — oh, never mind.”

 _Quieter than Harry._ Hermione dared her to finish her thought with her eyes alone. _Give me a reason to get executed; let my death mean something, you toad._

“At least you’ve learned your place," Umbridge exhaled as if the weight of her work was so great on her. "I was so worried you'd become more brazen with age, but your fire has faded -- "

“Why are you here.” Hermione kept her voice level, though it took more effort than she wanted to admit.

“Ah, how sad.” Umbridge smiled her cruel smile, her eyes narrowed. “You _can_ speak.”

“You’re a Ministry official, a high up one if the Prophet is to be believed,” Hermione licked her lips apart, to lift her chin. “I hadn’t thought they’d force you into such menial work.”

“My dear, I insisted!” Umbridge’s face wrinkled, deeper and deeper. Hermione wasn’t sure if she’s struck a nerve or amused her. “This is my program after all, and you are a very special girl. I was worried you would bring some wonderful contraption or cure-all potion, to try to manipulate the results."

The thought had occurred to Hermione, but she didn't know enough about what was involved in the evaluation.

"You never were very easy to deal with, were you dear."

Hermione rolled her eyes which she didn’t even attempt to hide. She doubted this was something Umbridge would oversee on a regular basis, but it wouldn’t surprise her either. She had to imagine the girls who came here cried and begged, and she would enjoy that level of control.

The room was barren.

Clinical.

Nothing was loose, no decorations. It wasn't an office, and it was likely rotated per session. There was the desk, two chairs and a magical wisp of light suspended above them. It was the sort of room one would provide to a person who had become unhinged, rather than a formal examination room. There were no tools.

Not unless you counted Umbridge.

Her attention rolled back to the scrunched beast of a woman, her brows arched. A challenge sat across her lips, as a firm line. She refused to speak first, refused to make small talk.

Instead, she remained stern and standing, ready to draw her wand or run if she needed to.

She refused the chair.

Refused the woman.

“Now, I know, it’s very exciting for you to be in the presence of such an auspicious Ministry official. But you are a unique case,” Umbridge said this with weighted emphasis to her words. “Please, don’t take ‘unique’ to mean that you’re exceptional in any way. You’re special as we expected you not to show up at all! And if you did show up, well, we expected your little friends to be close by.”

“I came alone,” Hermione said in a clipped voice.

“I see,” Umbridge nodded, somber. “Death can be cruel in that way. All alone... After everything -- and you came alone," her voice became sweeter the longer she spoke.

Hermione parted her lips but tamped down her urge to argue. She had friends; she had people she could have brought. But if they were going to kill Hermione here for abiding by their rules, they'd be hard-pressed to justify it. She refused to invite her friends to a joint execution.

Her silence had been enough to make Umbridge smile and her eyes shrink into her wrinkled skin.

Hermione sat, as an excuse to avoid Umbridge's eye. She kept her arms firmly in front of her, her hands clasped between her knees.

“It’s a chair dear, it doesn’t bite,” she laughed, rotten and sweet like when you vomited cotton candy after a roller coaster.

Hermione shook her hair over her shoulder.

“Please, relax.” She gestured to the wooden arms with strange divots and dips. 

Hermione didn’t move.

“Lay your arms in place,” Umbridge lifted her wand.

Hermione crossed her arms.

Umbridge had a look of tragedy across her face. This didn't reach her eyes, which glittered like she’d caught her sneaking around in her Fifth year all over again.

“ _Imperio_.”

The words had caused cold fear to spring into her veins. But that fear was stamped out by a sudden burst of sunlight from inside her core. Hermione felt warm and light, like all her stress melted away. She knew the spell and the word; she should be worried. She should be frightened and scream. She should want to run and hide.

She remained seated, her eyelids drooped.

Smiling.

“Good girl,” Umbridge crooned, her stubby wand pointed at her chest. “Put your arms onto the chair, Hermione.”

Hermione’s arms uncrossed but — no.

She blinked once, twice, then shook her head. Her gaze sharpened and her mouth reduced to a fine point. The sunlight in her chest warmed until it was like a hellfire, blistering her lungs and bubbling her veins. She watched as Umbridge’s expression tightened, her eyes strained and her wand hand shook.

She crossed her arms again, her nails dug into her biceps and her teeth clenched.

“Put your hands on the arms of the chair, you — “ her voice shook from her increased effort.

Hermione’s hands shook and her chest ached. She shoved them deeper into the crooks of her elbows. She felt her fingers crack and her teeth grit as she fought. She refused to give her the satisfaction and refused to be compliant. She agreed to be evaluated, not restrained.

The spell ceased and the relief rushed through her. Her head dipped lower and her chest felt lighter. She stared at the floor in front of her.

“ _Stupefy_.”

The warmth was replaced by darkness.

Then pain.

Whether it had been five seconds or five hours, she wasn’t sure. She had no windows for reference and no clock on the wall. Instead, she had a swath of pitch darkness save for a blinding silver light. Her head ached in a throbbing, repeated way. She tried to reach for her head, to feel for the damage, but her hand wouldn’t move.

She strained once, twice, then gave up. She was sore, and someone shoved her back against her seat.

Her hands were bound to the chair with broad silver clasps, as she’d feared. They were thick, and though she couldn't see inside them, she could sense lead and mercury cured between the width of it. Enough to conduct and to contain magic, should she deign to use it.

She had come willing to this assessment, but Umbridge was a sadist. There was no need to restrain her.

She had been willing.

Not anymore.

Her feet were free, she noted, as she kicked outward in the dark. She kicked someone in the hip quite hard, which elicited a sharp cry. She tried to kick again but they’d moved out of her way. She was left with a loose foot, which slipped in a puddle.

She stilled.

Her blood, she realized. The air smelled of copper and her eyes felt sticky to open.

At first, she thought the darkness was because of the head injury. She must have hit it, given how it ached. But then she blinked on repeat and the room became no clearer.

The singular small light shone from her left, where a witch was crouched by her chair. The shimmer of jewelry in front of her from Umbridge’s broach. She sat, underlit by the silver glow. The same sickly smile remained on her lips as it had, just before she’d cast an Unforgivable curse and failed.

“Is it finished?”

“Well,” the witch said, her voice hoarse. “Yes. But…”

“But what?” Umbridge shoved herself up from the desk.

Hermione’s eyes couldn’t focus on the bright light that emanated from her left arm. It had to be the constellation, but — how had it formed? Her throat burned like blood and and her arm hurt; potion. Peppermint. Ashwinder wings. Adder's fork. Moonstone powder. She tried to pick apart the flavours, but failed.

Ash, just -- ash. Everything tasted like it'd been prepared incorrectly, thrown together and slammed down her throat.

They weren't _right_.

“When you knocked her out, she hit her head.” The Healer’s name tag glittered against her bright green robes.

Healer Auger.

“How should I have known she’d fall forward like that,” Umbridge pouted.

“Normally we have a constellation in a minute flat,” they gestured at the light on her arm. Hermione could see little glittering silver spots. “This taps into their memories, their history, all of that. But she’s not receptive, she’s guarded. You’re meant to make them feel _safe_ — ”

“Look! she’s awake now,” Umbridge shoved Hermione’s head back. A splitting pain returned, her forehead slick.

“If you let me heal her head first, this’ll go smoother.” Auger lifted their wand, which was as long as their forearm.

Umbridge stomped a foot. “It shouldn’t matter, it’s not that complicated.“

“It is,” Auger shook their head. The set of goggles they wore squeaked as the various glass pieces moved. “Are you with us, dear?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her voice empty.

Auger stood up and cast a series of spells Hermione knew by heart; a cleaning charm, a disinfectant charm and a sealing charm. Her hand reached out through the dark to stroke her forehead in a series of small shapes, runes, but Hermione couldn’t pick the patterns.

The pain disappeared. Not completely, but enough to relax her forehead.

“Oh, why don’t we just give her a massage while we’re at it!”

The light on her forearm waned, so much so that it was a faint glow.

“See,” Auger said, her tone clipped. “If you would allow me to oversee the process — “

“No!” Umbridge shook with rage. “You undermined me, you administered healing magic while she was processing the potion. You could very well have ruined the mark.”

“It shouldn’t be given to unconscious subjects,” Auger ran her fingers over the marks, her expression drawn. “Serpens Caput.”

“Pardon,” Umbridge raised her head, her lips parted.

“Her constellation is Serpens Caput.”

The lights in the room returned in a gradual fade. Hermione’s wrists were released, which she was thankful for in more than one way. She waved a hand across her chest to dismiss the blood and did the courtesy of cleaning the floor too. 

“How does it work,” Hermione asked, her voice meek. She wasn’t in pain but her mind ached.

“A potion draws the signature of your magic into a constellation that matches a — “

“Don’t!” Umbridge cut in. “She’s not meant to know.”

Auger rolled her jaw on the spot. She had cropped brown hair and a scar across her throat. She blinked several times before she dropped her head, her gaze fixed to the spot where Hermione’s blood had been.

“You may go,” Umbridge waved a hand. “Get out.”

“We have further evaluations to run,” Auger looked over her shoulder. Hermione did the same, to see several Healers in their lime green robes. They had a camera and several tools. A measuring tape, a clipboard. That was what she’d expected.

Umbridge shivered with rage. She didn’t speak, and instead sat behind the metal desk.

Hermione stood, her core shaky as she did so. Her left forearm bore a string of mercurial marks that shifted in the light. They were visible from most angles though they vanished at others. She touched them with the pad of her thumb. They were so warm they hurt to touch and felt much like a pea had been lodged beneath her skin.

A potion.

She was correct, at least in part.

So these marks were drawn out by whatever was in the potion, based on memories and mental cognition. She took note as they approached her, to measure her height and to snap several photos of her. They noted her health, the length of her hair, her weight, the metrics went on.

One witch ran a hand across Hermione’s body and flicked her wrist, which brought up a glistening sheet of air and sparkles. It would be magical, were it not for the setting. It was hard to feel wondrous about much while a man had a measuring tape against her eyebrow.

“Fertile,” the witch noted to Auger, and Hermione wanted to throw up.

Auger’s expression shifted, not quite a smile but it was a lighter expression than before. “It’s just for the records — in case anything changes while you’re married.”

“You expect me to have children?” Hermione asked with a level of calm that surprised even herself.

“No,” Auger’s voice was sharp. “If you go in with no record of broken bones, magically mended or otherwise, and then you return with remnants of fractures or regrown bones, we know something’s wrong. It’s for your sake.”

“So knowing I’m fertile is just a bit of fun,“ Hermione bit back.

“As I said,” Auger waved her fingers, to replicate the glittering diagnostics into a piece of parchment. “If anything changes after you’re married, we’ll know. You aren’t being forced to produce children. If you're able to have children, then cannot, we know something has happened.”

“That’s enough,” Umbridge said, her wand in hand.

Auger and her team stilled their movements. One by one they noted down their findings. Hermione was focused on the creature behind the desk, her mirth palpable.

Umbridge stalked around the table, to snap her wand against the mark. Pain bloomed out of her arm like it was on fire, as silver and sparks began to form at the tip of her wand. Several runes and sigils formed; mannaz, othila, kaunan.

Man, estate, death, if Hermione were to ascribe them -- 

A spark, brighter, higher, in green.

Hermione forced down the pain as more sparks appeared.

Then a name.

“Congratulations are in order, Mrs. Severus Snape.”

…

Hermione sat at Cibus Cafe in the back room, the one enchanted to look like an open field in the English countryside. It was the quietest place in Diagon Alley and the easiest place to get to, to see Ron.

It was reflex to want to see him. Ginny had practice until late. She didn’t have anyone else, and the news left her empty. She had expected to be angry or disgusted or a mixture of the two. She had been ready to hate whoever she married with all of her might, and to find ways to avoid sex and intimacy.

But there was no expectation for them to have children. It was Snape, who she knew well enough to know this was a punishment for him as much as it was for her.

When she’d arrived at the Weasleys’ joke shop, she hadn’t said a word to Ron. He’d known she had her evaluation that morning. Ginny must have told him. She hadn’t said a word to anyone about it, as she’d wanted to handle it alone.

But she couldn’t.

They’d walked to the cafe in silence and sat down. She had a hot chocolate that had gone cold while he had a massive bagel and a milkshake. He’d finished both by the time she’d spoken, and to her surprise, he’d allowed her time.

When she told him he'd shouted, which wasn’t surprising in the least.

“They stuck with you with Snape?”

Hermione had every reason to cry, yet she didn't. She remained stony, her mind in a frantic spiral as she selected her defense.

"They can't make you do this, Hermione."

"They can, and they have." Hermione strained her jaw, her eyes narrowed at her left arm. "Azkaban or marriage; those are my options."

"Yeah, but, marrying Snape?" His voice was thick with disbelief. "I'd take the Dementors before I’d even touch Snape."

"Well, I can't imagine a better match, given the potential suitors," she bit off the last word with every ounce of malice.

They weren't suitors, they were captors.

_Goyle, Montague, Flint..._

They were the younger ones, the ones she could almost imagine herself begrudging.

God, imagine if Malfoy was still around.

She'd seen the parade of Death Eaters with darkness still around them, their little birds hooked to their arms. Each girl had a single silver band, which linked to the constellation on their inner left wrist.

"I'd be a better bloody match than Snape," he hissed. "Are you hearing yourself."

Hermione brushed at her robes, which had crimped around her hips.

"I could ask for you.”

"That isn't how it works." Hermione picked up her hot chocolate, which was too sweet.

The smell of it alone reminded her of Umbridge, pressed close to her face. She’d left out that aspect of her story as well as the failed attempt at Imperio. Her split open head, her pool of blood. The conversation of fertility and of broken bones.

“I could try,” Ron reached for her hand but faltered. He instead tapped his knuckles on the table, his expression drawn.

"If it were as simple as a request, someone would have snatched me up for the sheer fun of torturing me."

“Don’t say that.”

She endured the sweetness, though her teeth ached with each sip.

"How d'you know how it works? I've never heard of this before it hit the papers, not once. Wizards and Muggles making some balmy agreement hundreds of years ago, that they just found now? Sounds like a load of shite to me."

"It's done Ron," Hermione's voice wavered, though she were no less resolved.

"How’re you so okay with this, Hermione." He gestured to her wrist, where Serpens Caput sat like silver freckles. As far as constellations went, it was rather simple. There was a small lasso shape, with several stars that trailed off towards the tail.

"We've been in a slow death for years," Hermione shook her sleeve out, to cover her forearm. "Culturally, socially, all of it. Stagnation, distrust, fear... It has to come to a head, eventually."

It occurred to her that this was a goodbye of sorts. She couldn’t speak to Ron about this, not if she wanted any real input. He stared her down with darkness behind his eyes, as if she were the one who’d forced the marks onto her skin.

She had loved him once, deeply and completely. She didn’t see that boy anymore with the long nose and blue eyes. He had vanished alongside Harry, blown away in the wind.

They hadn’t dated.

They hadn’t even talked about the kiss after that day.

Hermione wondered if he blamed himself for how Harry died; if they’d just been a little quicker if they’d paid more attention. She saw it in how he watched her, a hard line in his gaze where he’d treat her like a weight rather than a person.

He didn’t want to see her suffer, but he didn’t want to see her at all.

But she’d run to him today because she had no one else. No one except Ginny.

And she felt him slip away from her as he sat back in his chair, his broad arms crossed over his chest. His gaze drifted sideways to the enchanted meadow. An eternal sunset rested on the horizon, which cast a yellow glow over them.

She tugged her sleeve down to cover her constellation.

“I don’t get it,” Ron said.

“It was either with a constellation or death.”

"Doesn't mean you have to kill yourself for them." He arched a brow at her arm, which she cuddled to her chest. "There's no guarantee they won't kill you when they have you -- "

"Marrying Snape isn't going to kill me."

"Hermione!" Ron gawked at her as a wide smile lit up his face. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

It was a joke, given his teasing tone.

Except that it was truer than anything else he'd said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Friday — August 10th, 2001.**

Hermione said goodbye to Ron at the cafe, as she refused to go the Weasley’s joke shop, to see Fred and George — they’d see it in her eyes and her slump. Or they wouldn’t, and that would be worse. 

Hermione dropped her satchel onto the floor of her office. She hadn’t said much to Penelope when she arrived, as she’d already explained herself. She didn’t want to tell Penelope the results either, she didn’t even want to tell Ron, but she had to tell someone. She mashed the heels of her palms against her tired eyes as her head wound and her forearm ached in competition. Her mind was the worst yet as she felt the exhaustion tendril out from her force of will.

In the slight security of her office, the morning flooded back to her.

The rotten taste of a failed love potion. That must have been what they had used on her. She hadn’t spent enough time perfecting potion reversal by taste, more by sight — but she could sample out pieces of it with her more discerning taste buds.

Ash and… Veritaserum, perhaps, as she couldn’t work out what else Adder’s fork was used for. Perhaps a poison, or counter-poison.

Once her analytical flashes slowed, she felt ill. Deeply ill, too hot, like she may throw up. Her skin was too sensitive, and she’d not looked at her forearm since she’d shown Ron.

Her lunch with Ron had reinforced her want to keep the results a secret. He hadn’t helped. She hadn’t wanted him to help either, just to listen to her, but he’d not even done that for her. He was warm and familiar, but it wasn’t a comforting thing to have him mock her choices or how cold she’d become. He didn’t seem to care about her in the midst of it, except for the fact that he lost her as an option for his future.

As if that loss hadn’t been three years old and counting.

“I could ask for you.”

Her stomach turned. 

He had meant it, she realized in a distant way. He’d have married her if he thought it’d have saved her. But she had been given two days for her appointment and her date to be wed less than twenty-four hours after that. There was no turnaround as swift as this. She wondered if they wanted from her; compliance or conflict.

Perhaps they expected her to run. Or to marry one of the Weasley boys so they could arrest both Hermione and whoever helped her.

And Ron would do it, to save her.

But she couldn’t do that to him.

Because she did love him in some capacity. Perhaps not as ardently as she had in her younger years. That had been before Harry died when she’d thought she might marry Ron in a childish, sweet way. She lost that impulse along with any lingering sweetness.

What hadn't she lost to the beast that was war?

She didn't want to marry Ron. She would grow to resent him for the trap he'd helped place her into. He would resent her for her way of being, how critical she could be, how picky she was, how bossy she was, how awful she was. There was a list longer than her forearm of reasons he could hate her and that list doubled at the thought of marriage and close quarters with her ex-crush, her ex-everything.

Ron would try to be a good husband, which would be difficult.

Or he'd be awful at it, and that'd be even more difficult.

Worse than his shortcomings were her own. She’d be a terrible wife by design and by nature. She was too independent and she didn’t thrive under the thumb of anyone. The thought of marriage made her life reduce to a fine point, like a light at the end of a tunnel. All options, occluded. All reasons dismissed.

Because being married to someone you cared about, even a little, meant that you had to try.

And that didn’t factor in their natural friction, where his bleeding heart strategy clashed with her clinical pragmatism.

The mere thought of being married to Ron out of necessity made her feel ill. Being married to Snape made her feel ill in a different way, one she could become accustomed to. At least with Snape, she wouldn't have to pretend to make it work, as he certainly wouldn't.

Would he expect her to kiss him?

To — have him?

Her skin crawled anew as she sank further into her office chair. It was a treat to have a shorter shift, but the weight of her morning ruined any pleasure. Further to that vague dread of commitment, the visual imagery of being with Snape, naked, made her want to be ill. It wasn’t his fault, he wasn’t specifically objectionable for his appearance or personality, it was the situation by and large. The forced nature of it, the power dynamics.

He was a teacher in her younger years. He’d guided her from when she was a First year, reveled in her punishment, tore her to pieces. And when he wasn’t cruel he was limitedly supportive, if she were truly exceptional in a specific class. But that support was just a slightly less sharp scowl or how he’d not tear her apart, just for those few minutes her potion glistened.

She could see him like a great bat, or a Dementor who’d gained corporeal form. Slick black hair framed a sallow face, empty eyes until they were cruel, spider-like fingers wrapped around an essay where he’d found faults in her work that he’d have ignored in others. He wasn’t ugly; she couldn’t say he was. His presence was sort of like a giant tree trunk, fallen and fungal in the wood. It could be beautiful in a distant, untouchable way, where you knew it had been something. There was a necessity in its place, that it had been something, once. But she didn’t want to go near it, saw no reason to.

Not that she thought he was attractive; far from it.

But it could be worse.

That would be her mantra she realized as she picked through her latest manuscript. The simpler ones weren't keeping her attention nor her focus, and this rang especially true for the memoir of a Hufflepuff girl about her time at Hogwarts during the Carrows.

So much of the same; torture, tears, tragedy.

Lies.

So many lies.

Hermione eyed the large stack of manuscripts that she'd set aside last night.

She reached across to sift through the titles until one slim, deceptively short potioneering proposal caught her eye. She snatched it up, to examine the cover letter.

_Bethany Botts, apprentice potioneer, expert at experimental evanescence. Aspiring author and aggressive activist. Mother of five cats, lover of tea._

Hermione rolled her eyes, though she thought it was a sweet attempt at crafting empathy. The alliteration was never as clever as people thought it was, but it was non-fiction.

She skimmed the work with a critical eye. It was a no-nonsense guide to alternative uses for pixie offal. While pixie teeth and wings were the primary focus of most texts, this witch was determined to prove that even the bones or guts of the creatures had merit.

She had been putting the manuscript off, if only because it would involve so much research.

It was exactly the sort of thing she needed.

Penelope paid her fifty Galleons that evening, given she’d missed part of her shift. And the books she’d taken last week, Penelope explained, you took more than I realized.

Hermione smiled like she was thankful and mentally rationed how she’d afford both rent and food this coming month.

It wasn’t until she arrived home that she accepted that it’d be one or the other.

And she needed somewhere to live more than she needed food.

...

Hermione Apparated straight home from Diagon Alley. She didn’t touch the fridge or the pantry. They needed to go shopping, and she couldn’t bring herself to do it tonight. She hadn’t much of an appetite anyway. She had been hot since St. Mungo’s and her stomach hadn’t settled since her hot chocolate. She felt stuck between the flu and a stomach bug, both nauseous and hot.

She laid awake in her shared flat with Ginny, her hands folded on her stomach and her throat tight. She had run several diagnostic spells, to detect wards or devices. She checked for Extendable Ears, she checked for scrying spells, she tried everything. But there was nothing.

She checked her constellation the same, but it seemed to be… Empty. Or, devoid of magic, rather than expelling magic.

Did the Death Eaters know how hard she’d tried to avoid them?

Did it make them laugh, to watch her struggle?

They didn’t have the kindness to kill her outright or to capture her. They gave her the breathing room to feel like she had a chance, where she could flex her wings and spread and that’d make it easier for her. She would end up pinned like a monarch butterfly, spread wide and prostrated for the public’s viewing pleasure as Mrs. Severus Snape.

The image of herself peppered with confetti on Snape’s arm.

The interview where he said he cried from joy, her interview where she cried altogether.

She’s so happy, they’d say. She couldn’t stop crying.

She hadn't cried until she did.

She hadn’t cried when they’d told her she was to marry Snape. She hadn’t cried when Ron told her she was stupid for participating in the charade. She hadn’t even cried when she’d had her pay docked twenty Galleons for four hours of work missed. She hadn’t cried when she counted her coins and realized she’d have to skimp on food to make rent, so as to not lean more on Ginny than she already had.

No.

She’d started to cry something trivial, like a child. She had dug through her old textbooks to take to the Order that night — and instead stumbled over a lesson plan she'd made with Harry for Dumbledore's Army, packed full of hexes and defensive spells. They wanted to keep it as Light Arts as possible, defensive, protective. She recognized his handwriting, his scrawly and unsure penmanship never improved in spite of all the essays he wrote.

The jagged shapes sat next to her neat curls, as she'd practiced her cursive so thoroughly during her holidays so much that she’d cramped her wrist. She had been so afraid of the other children if they’d see her messy handwriting or mock her for not knowing how to use a quill. She wanted people to like her, and so she polished herself so much she shone.

And people mocked her for that instead.

The parchment remained clasped between her hands on her stomach, scrunched and flattened between her sobs.

It was so stupid to cry about a lesson plan, but it ran deeper than that.

It was their optimism laid bare, black ink on brown parchment.

It was when they still believed that there could be a triumph and that things would snap back into place.

As if wars were absolute, win or lose.

Good or evil.

Not once had she thought about the shape of war, how it cut you away until you could pass through it. It trimmed your compassion and your future foresight until you passed through, smaller, more afraid, more vicious, more unsure. But even if you got out of it, you weren’t the same. 

You were ready for war, even when there was nothing to fight.

Her hands shook and her mind whirled and her chest ached. She fought for the past three years in every way she could think of. But she had run out of ideas. She felt so scraped bare of hope that the word didn’t even sound real anymore. They just needed hope. More hope.

Perhaps that’s why she felt so sick as she laid in her bed at seven o’clock in the evening. She tried and tried, and it never seemed to amount to more than hurt. She tried to help Harry, he had died. She tried to find her parents, and she had. They had died. She tried to help Moody, and Dumbledore, and Sirius, and the names bundled together with fresher wounds. The bright-faced, no-name people who’d come to the Order base once, or twice, and then never again.

She hadn’t even a chance to get to know them before she mourned them.

They had become more defensive now. Less outward, less preemptive attacks. They were just surviving if that.

She hadn’t gotten through the war yet, either. She was still in it, with her face rubbed red and raw. She swallowed hard, her lashes fluttered over glossy eyes.

She wasn't crying about the Marital Clause.

She was just crying.

The evaluation had been dehumanizing. They'd assessed her constellation and taken several photos. They took photos of her, her hair up, her hair down. They spun her and drew blood and taken her hair and if it hadn't been at St. Mungo's, she may have drawn her wand. If it hadn’t been for Umbridge and her failed attempt at Imperio, she may have been awake to assess the potion. If she’d been clever enough, she’d have examined it so has to pull it apart.

Not every witch had a supposed match.

Her fingers wound around one another as golden light formed notes, a shorthand appeared for all the tests they’d run. The room it had been in. The Healers that had been involved. Anything that she could bring to the Order, in the hopes that they’d be able to do something about it. Perhaps she could be the last Muggleborn girl to go through it. Then she would feel justified in her choice to marry a man based on skewed political mandates.

On top of her personal grief, she hated how traditional a concept it was. People couldn't simply love one another if shoved together. It ignored the agency of those involved, as a baseline. They didn’t ask about her gender or her preference.

Some people didn't fancy the opposite gender, and some people didn't fancy anyone at all. It was barbaric to corral young witches into paired sets with 'real' magical men, as they deigned them.

And that was a whole other unique insult.

Hermione pushed up from her bed, her hands clasped on the thin mattress. It was warm again, too warm, and her thin tank top and shorts were drenched in sweat. If she didn't know better, she'd say she had a fever. She had been hot since her time at St. Mungo’s, especially around her arm. It made her chest ache and her cheeks flush.

Perhaps her body was trying to reject the mercurial specks, or whatever had been in the potion they’d slammed down her throat.

She tromped to the bathroom to fetch a cure-all vial. They had several practical kits, themed after specific injuries. They were set inside the medicine cabinet, shrunk small like a deck of cards and undetectable. This was a Muggle apartment complex and magic wasn't strictly permitted inside of it.

Not that it stopped her, nor Ginny. They couldn't Trace them by their magic alone, not unless they delved into magic so intense it warped the ley lines.

She downed the small vial, which tasted of pepper and citrus. The fever-like heat in her face dissipated, a happy coincidence that the potion narrowed down on her red face and swollen eyes.

She closed the cabinet door and saw her reflection in the evening darkness. She'd ignored it initially, given how red her eyes were and how hot her face felt. She still looked red and swollen, but it melted from her like an ice cube on warm kitchen tiles.

Her hair was wound into thick braids at the base of her neck, as she'd not want to think about it beyond the necessity of braiding it. She was still tempted to chop the whole thing off, to have short hair, but her curls would turn her head triangular if she did that.

She'd had short hair as a girl, and looked like a sad little mushroom.

Her eyes were glossy, rubbed red like her nose and her cheeks. The brown looked more resigned than bright, and she couldn’t keep eye contact for more than a few seconds. She looked no different to when she'd been in school, except that she was thinner and more severe because of it. Everyone she knew had that same tension in their brows and at the corners of their lips.

She rested her forehead against the mirror, for the hope that it would be cool. It wasn't, and neither was the sink nor the tiles. Everything in their apartment was warm and stayed warm, as summer burned itself out.

She had to be at the Order meeting in an hour.

She hoped for her sake that Snape didn’t attend.

…

There was no reason to bob and weave through the streets, to Apparate all around and catch a train the rest of the way. She wondered if they’d watch her theatrics, to see her float between places and pretend to be clever.

A man with dirty blonde hair stood across the street, though he was faced towards the docks. She stood for a long moment until he set off towards the city.

She didn't trust him, even if he hadn't seemed to notice her.

Hermione stepped into their safe house on Craggle Street with her arms full of old clothes and several books. She dropped them near the donation box, which had a few joke shop toys and snacks in it. The books Hermione had left had all vanished which made her smile until she saw one tucked beneath the leg of a bed.

She frowned and dipped into space, to pry the book out.

“That bed woggles,” a girl with blond hair said. She was upside-down, laying on her back with her head over the edge.

“It wobbles?” Hermione both corrected and asked. She waved a hand to fasten the leg, though she put pressure on it to make sure she’d done as intended. It didn’t wobble now, and that left the book free from its torturous prison.

“It’s just a book,” the girl scoffed as she rolled onto her stomach. She tucked her mouth against her arms, to narrow her eyes at Hermione.

Hermione flipped the book to examine the title. It was The Tales of Beedle the Bard, though the leg of the bed had put a heavy dent into it. “It’s more than a book.”

The little girl sat up, a scrupulous look on her face.

“This helped us defeat V — You-Know-Who,” Hermione said as she crouched beside the bed. “Have you read it?”

“A book defeated him..?” She said the same scrutiny now lilted her voice. “How’s a book gonna do that?”

“Well no,” Hermione smiled. “A book can do many things. It can offer you an escape, it can teach you things, it can keep you company, it can save your life,” she placed the book beside the girl. “Why don’t you read it, you can tell me what you think.”

The girl snatched it up to flip it open. She wasn’t cruel enough to toss the book away while Hermione was around, but it wouldn’t surprise her if she found out the girl hadn’t even tried.

“I’m Hermione,” she said, her tone cautious. “What’s your name?”

“Abigal Abbott,” she said, no patience for Hermione’s questions.

Mr. Abbott had been put into Azkaban for suspicion of conspiring with terrorists last month. Hermione wasn’t sure if Hannah had been told they’d taken in her half-siblings.

Hermione pushed up from the floor, aware that she’d been stalling. She was still worried she’d find Snape upstairs. She hadn’t planned what to say.

Would he know that she was the one she’d been matched with?

By the time she arrived on the third-floor meeting room, she could hear the rumble of conversation. It stopped altogether when they saw her enter. Ron was red in the face, his hands shaking and his gaze fixed on the middle of the table.

So they all knew.

“We’re sorry to hear about your — about the evaluation, Hermione,” Remus said. Tonks wasn’t there, nor were Jones, Doge or Proudfoot. They tended to come on the first of each month rather than every week, as it was suspicious to have repeated plans. 

Ginny was still in her Holyhead Harpies uniform, which Hermione shot a worried look at.

It was like she’d died and arrived like a ghost.

“Had we known — “

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “I wasn’t going to let you all stage a rescue on my behalf.”

The room grew tense, but Hermione ignored it. Instead, she took a seat beside Ginny, her head bowed low.

“And don’t be sorry,” Hermione said in a flat voice. “I’d wanted to tell you myself — “

“I figured you wouldn’t come,” Ron said with a moody pout. “Wouldn’t expect you to have.”

“I wanted to report my experience,” Hermione arched a brow at Ron. “So perhaps we can find a way to reverse this for the girls who’ve been brought in already. And to prevent further evaluations.”

The Weasleys filled half the table. They were lucky to have their allegiance in this way. The sheer loyalty they held for the Order was built on the backs of one another. There was no reason for them to care so much about Muggleborns, given they were purebloods. They could have had a far easier life if they’d never cared.

Hermione waited for the peripheral conversations to die down, which only took a moment. They all focused on her, their hands folded in front of their or formed into fists. Fred looked ready to snatch Hermione up and Apparate her to France, which made her smile.

He’d always been her favorite Weasley, aside from Ginny.

She’d never tell Ron that.

“So, it’s at St. Mungo’s,” Hermione dug out her small notepad, which was linked to her golden notes that she’d crochet around her fingers. She flipped to her notes, which were impeccable. Even in her strife, she prioritized cleanliness. “It isn’t linked to their internal departments. The Ministry keeps the records if there are any. I wasn’t required to sign anything, which is something I could point to when they evaluate this program — I don’t know how legally binding this is, the marriage or the evaluation.”

Hermione looked around, though no one spoke. “Umbridge is involved. She tried to use Imperio to make me compliant in the process, but she failed. She didn’t try very hard, perhaps she underestimated me. I don’t think she’d make that same mistake again,” Hermione said, in a voice that made it sound like she was bragging. It was fear, in truth. She had no one to report the woman to, no way to combat her cruelty.

“You didn’t tell me that — “

“I’m telling you now,” Hermione shot Ron a withering look. “I didn’t want to relive it on repeat. So please, allow me to speak.”

“Of course Hermione,” Molly nodded, with Authur by her side. Authur looked happier than Hermione remembered. He’d been fired from the Ministry of Magic last summer and begun as a mechanic’s apprentice. He looked fuller and warmer, and was the sole person she’d seen improve since being cut away from the Ministry.

He had only ever been at the Ministry on behalf of the Order, after all.

What a life they all could have had if war machinations didn’t grip their hearts and throats.

“Healer Auger is the woman in charge of the medical side. There’s a potion they administer, which I assume implants these silver spots. They could be more than pure silver, given the liquid nature of them, but I haven’t been able to get a sample of them,” she shifted her sleeve up to reveal the faintly glowing constellation. “I’m not yet sure of the implications of these marks. Based on my initial examination, they don’t appear to have a locational trace or any auditorial function… So they aren’t spy equipment.” Her lips quirked at her simplification, though there was nothing funny about it.

That had been the first thing she’d checked when she’d gotten out of St. Mungo’s. It wouldn’t have surprised her if they were going to use them as a means to track her. The fact that they didn’t was unexpected.

“There’s no inherent magical trace to them at all… Which is strange. Given they were administered by a potion, there should at least be evidence that they were once magical, enough to form the connection with my magical signature and the metal itself.” She slipped her sleeve back into place. “As for receiving the marks, the subject has to be awake and able to think; they rely on memories and on internal factors. I don’t know if this is true, but that’s what I gleaned from their conversations. They took measurements and assessed my overall health. There’s no expectation for repopulation — “

A ripple of disgust filled the room, in the grit of teeth and shake of shoulders.

“So I believe it’s as we discussed last week; it’s a diversion tactic, a visible cause to champion while a deeper, more insidious cause builds beneath the surface.”

“What’s worse than being forced to marry Snape?” George scoffed.

Fred and Ron wore matching, murderous expressions. She didn’t want to ask what was wrong, she knew. There was a flit of eye contact between the Weasley boys as if they’d agreed to kill on her behalf.

“Of all the people I could be forced to marry, it’s fortunate that it is Snape.”

The room fell silent. Each of them eyed her with their own version of disgust or confusion.

“Imagine if I had to marry Carrow.” Hermione’s gaze weighted down on the table in front of her. “Or, Yaxley.”

“That’s like saying it’s better to fall off a broom instead of being shot by a killing curse,” Ginny said, her voice cautious. She’d not spoken since Hermione had arrived. 

“One’s certain death while the other…” Hermione grit her teeth. “At least there’s a chance.”

The Order meeting pivoted from there to cover the week that had passed. Bill had been planted at a warehouse on the northern end of London, where there were double the amount of Death Eaters than expected.

A dozen arrived followed by a dozen more.

“And they weren’t Snatchers?”

Bill shook his head. “They had the masks, the robes. Full regalia. One boy had his mask yanked off by another,” Bill paused, his brow furrowed. “I recognized him. He wouldn’t leave me alone when I came to Hogwarts, to help with the dragons for the Tournament. Wanted to work in dragon rehabilitation,” he said.

“How old was he at Hogwarts?” George asked his arms folded on the table.

“Couldn’t have been older than eleven.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered with the math of it all.

New Death Eaters meant that they were able to create Dark Marks. Such a feat had been tied to Voldemort, to their knowledge. So to see young people, as young as eighteen, with marks on their inner arms. They couldn’t have received them during the Battle of Hogwarts. 

It had to mean something.

They just weren’t sure what that was yet.

Their conversation swirled around the topic of Voldemort’s body, as it tended to. He’d been dead for three years but the Order didn’t trust him to remain that way. Even if they got their hands on his body, they didn’t have an expressed plan of what to do with it. It was merely a way to strike at the heart of the Death Eaters, who cherished their fallen master beyond logic.

Snape couldn’t verify the location of the body, as it was under Bellatrix’s control the last he’d heard of it. No one spoke about it, it was a taboo subject. Snape had been frozen out after the Battle of Hogwarts, kept on for the sheer fact that they thought he might be able to spy on the Order for them.

But it was a benign cause with no end in sight. Except for the end that had been scratched onto a small piece of card stock. Her name, Snape's, a date by which they would meet.

Snape had stipulated his expectations for any marriage he was assigned. They would notify him of the match by that evening and she would meet him at the Ministry tomorrow morning.

Hermione didn’t mention the immediacy of the wedding to those in the meeting.

She didn’t want anyone to attend the ceremony or lack thereof.

She scrunched further into her seat, unsure what to expect at the Ministry.

In a distant, dim way she was upset that Snape hadn’t bothered to attend their meeting at the Order that night. He had to have been notified of the alignment. He hadn’t sent an owl, he hadn’t touched base at all. She was left with a pit in her stomach. If he refused to attend, would she be the one they punished?

All she could picture was Umbridge, tutting her tongue and her brows heavy of her eyes.

“Of course not even Snape would want to marry you,” she would say. “He’s chosen Azkaban over you.”

And then she’d be warped until the constellation matched a new set, someone else. That boy Charlie had spoken to, who wanted to help dragons when he was a child. Or Rabastan Lestrange. The web extended to all the awful men who’d tried to kill her or tear her apart.

“If anything changes after you’re married, we’ll know.”

They would know — but would they care?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate y'all for reading! I hope you're enjoying it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Friday — August 10th, 2001.**

  
The concept of marriage had always been an obligation to Hermione. It was a pair of ugly socks she had to smile through receiving. It wasn't something she wanted, but she'd endure it if she loved someone enough.

As a child, she wouldn't play the bride nor would she pick flowers for a bouquet.

There were no toys lined up as her family or an imaginary groom leaned against the old willow tree her father always said he’d cut down. She pictured the play of marriage as something fun and idyllic, so outside of her wheelhouse that she made it other. She could see the reasoning behind it, as to why young children would pretend such things. It was fun, it was the future, it was about love and hope.

And the older she got, the more marriage seemed like a complication of archaic traditions.

The Marital Clause had been insidious, slow. Not announced all at once, but implied through small articles and features.

It was alluded to, implied, and it took several suspect pairings before they named it.

After the first four marriages between pureblooded men and Muggleborn women, Hermione had begun to scour the Daily Prophet for more information. By April, they had finally admitted that Ministry intervention had been used to assign the couples. Public favor had been on their side, as the few couples who’d married seemed idyllic. Each had a beautiful wedding with beautiful photos, none of which showed the true nature of the arrangement. It was easy to see the photos in the Daily Prophet and admire the beautiful couples.

It was a symbolic end of the war to some, while those who’d defended blood purity pursed their lips and rolled their eyes.

They saw it as riding coattails of old traditions.

Hermione didn’t really care what the purebloods had to say on the matter.

She couldn’t sleep.

And so she didn’t.

She spent the night pacing in her small flat. She’d been notified of her an evaluation on Wednesday and expected to marry by Saturday. They either really expected her to run, or they needed her locked down for…

Some reason.

But they’d shut Snape out of their operations. What possible benefit could there be to such an arrangement?

Or were the stars really that clever, to pick her perfect match?

  
**Saturday — August 11th, 2001.**

Hermione picked out her sharpest pair of Muggle jeans and a simple light blue t-shirt. She pulled on her favorite hoodie, one that she’d taken from Harry’s old clothes. It was slim and deep emerald, but still sat too large on her bony frame. She was tempted to enchant the chest of the hoodie to say something pithy about Muggleborn rights but resisted. She had dark circles beneath her eyes and she’d not bothered to style her hair outside of her usual braid

She would marry Snape; she didn’t have to pretend to be happy about it.

“If you need me to come with, I can,” Ginny said, her hands clasped to Hermione’s shoulders.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Hermione’s lips crimped with the heat of her words. “I don’t even want to go.”

Ginny was in full Holyhead Harpies regalia. She had stripes of green and gold across her cheeks, and Hermione couldn’t decide if the colors complimented or contrasted with her complexion. She hadn’t time to think about it as Ginny crushed her to her chest, her face buried in Hermione’s neck. She held her close for a long, quiet moment, and Hermione appreciated the concern. She wished she could mirror it for herself.

Hermione had watched her friends go into battle countless times. She’d watched the Order be assigned to rescue missions or assaults. But she’d never seen Ginny shake when she’d said goodbye to anyone then. She was always strong, always stoic, sure that they’d come back okay or she’d go get them herself.

But now her hands shook against the nape of Hermione’s neck.

“And you’re sure?”

“Not really,” Hermione said in a dry voice. “But I was given three days' notice. I believe they knew I’d outsmart their system if they left me in it for too long.”

“Modest aren’t you,” Ginny snorted. “Are you still going to live here..? We haven’t even worked anything out.”

“I’ll be back tonight,” Hermione nodded. “Even if I have to break out of Snape’s house.”

That had been a joke, but Ginny didn’t smile. Instead, she gave her a final hug before she stepped away to snatch up her broom.

They exchanged a slow wave, as Hermione lingered by her couch.

Hermione watched as Ginny vanished with a small pop. She dug out the small card she’d been given at St. Mungo's.

Hermione hadn't been to the Ministry since her last interview, two years ago. She had applied to be part of The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

She'd been rejected with a form letter, in spite of her noted brilliance. They'd told her she was a sure thing, that they'd have to hire her.

But they didn't.

She took a deep breath, her gaze focused on the card in her hand. It had a small address and a photo of her arrival location attached to it. The date and time had been scrawled onto it, but the rest had been printed on.

_Hermione Granger, Marital Clause, 8am. Disc Seven._  
_Basement Floor Two._  
_Marital Law Office, courtesy of Marital Clause Division Head Official Dolores Jane Umbridge._  
_Care of Severus Snape._

Snape’s name had been the smallest thing on the card, while Umbridge had taken up most of it with her own.

Had Snape anticipated he’d be matched?

Had he known it’d be her?

The sensation of Apparation had been something to adjust to. She compressed as it started and an immense relief as she landed. It was instantaneous, enough that she was still holding the same breathe that she’d left with.

She exhaled, relieved, though the room she had arrived in was dimly lit.

Hermione blinked in the dark, her gaze unfocused. She was in a spacious booth that reminded her of a change room except that it was round. She tugged on her robe from her bag, if only because it allowed her a place to stash her wand. As she righted herself and checked her braid, she stepped down the small steps.

A little gold plaque was pressed to the door as she exited, with the number Seven engraved. Down the aisle was a dozen or so more doors, with matching plaques.

It allowed people a specific place to land so they didn’t all pop into existence onto one another. It also afforded them a chance to change if they needed to, whether they arrived in robes or Muggle clothes. Not to mention how strict the Ministry was about letting guests Apparate into the belly of the building. Her breath turned to mist before her eyes.

It was so cold down here.

She emerged from her aisle of Apparition Chambers with the card still held in her hand. Her free hand remained in her pocket against her wand, as if she might need it. She held her chin high and her back straight as if this were a battle.

Perhaps it was.

"Miss Granger," a girl smiled, though she snapped a hand to her mouth. "Or should I say Mrs. Snape?"

"Hermione will do," Hermione said, her voice clipped. "Are you to escort me?"

The stout blond girl waved her arm, and Hermione followed in suit. They went through the large atrium with the fountain decorated with large glass orbs. Each orb was a different size, though Hermione couldn't pick the pattern, nor the significance. They had wide bands around each of them in silver, though she couldn’t decipher the runes. They spun slowly around each orb. It would be pretty, were it not so morbid.

Each had red in them. Thick, viscous. Blood.

Or something like blood.

"It's a little sad, isn't it?" Bianca, that was the name on her tag. She politely didn't care to ask or to clarify, as she wanted to be in and out of this place.

"Oh, marrying someone twice my age? Or being forced to marry at all." Hermione made a sound from the back of her throat, gurgled and cruel. "Not even to mention the dynamic of having to marry a former Professor."

"No, no, I meant it's sad that you aren't doing a big... Y'know, event, about it."

An execution, Hermione thought.

"I always wanted a big wedding, you must have too! You only get one."

Hermione didn't want to correct the girl.

People married and divorced with some frequency. It wasn't the sixteenth century, where one had to have their wives decapitated because of their own shortcomings. Though she realized with grim intelligence that the law they’d enacted predated even the execution of King Henry’s wives.

Perhaps an execution was what she meant after all.

"You could’ve done the big dress, and all your family could be there."

"I don't have any family."

"Friends?"

"I'm not the social sort," Hermione said, her tone thick with sarcasm. She had no patience for this idyllic world this girl lived in, where an arranged marriage was something to be celebrated.

"Oh, no wonder you got Snape then," she laughed, and Hermione wanted to hip check her into the fountain. But they passed it too soon and were in an elevator within seconds.

If there was a chance to run, she'd lost it, over and over.

She could have avoided the appointment altogether. But if she dodged the Clause, she'd be hunted with legalized brutality. That would leave Snape open to a new match, potentially, as they'd brand her a cheat and imply she'd mangled her constellation.

If Snape were forced to marry another girl, it would compromise the Order. Not to mention what would happen to Hermione in all of it, where she'd end up with, or with whom. She had run through the possible arrangements, but unless she decided to go on the run altogether, she’d end up at the Ministry in some fashion. She didn’t have the money to afford travel or to sustain herself on the road. She’d live in constant fear of being caught. She couldn’t do tents across Britain again.

She didn’t have Harry this time, and she refused to do such a thing alone with Ron. She wouldn’t ask him to, either.

No matter the path she chose, she would be alone. At least this path afforded her a chance of creature comforts, a bathroom, a washing machine. She could keep her job, perhaps, and she could buckle down, save money, spend her time trying to reverse the process. She could handle this marriage for a few weeks or months if needed. At least she had something easier to escape than Azkaban itself.

The elevator jerked to a stop.

Hermione had been worried she’d have to look for Snape when she arrived. That he’d make it difficult for her, or that he’d hide in a room or not turn up at all.

To her uncharacteristic relief, she relaxed when she saw him.

“Wait here,” Bianca hummed, high and soft. “I’ll get your file, sign you in, you just go see your fiance.”

The word ‘fiance’ hit like a punch to the stomach.

Hermione gritted her teeth so hard she feared she’d chipped them. She swirled her tongue over her molars but stopped as she met Snape’s eye.

Snape looked like a hole in the universe. He stood in deep black robes, framed by pastel pink walls. Bright pink flowers and ribbons were twirled along the wall, framed around sickly sweet kitten prints. All of the kittens were rolling or cute, but they had a malevolence to their gaze Hermione recognized. A set of baby blue armchairs sat next to Snape, as well as a miniature white coffee table. He looked as if he might die if he moved, terrified of all the bright, light colors.

His head was downturned as he stared at the floor. Stiff; still. Impossibly so. 

A series of photographs had been pinned to the wall behind him. Each photo had names and dates listed on them in a bold silver marker.

_Flint and Woart, 2001._

_Goyle and Smith, 2001._

_Montague and Aisley, 2001._

She grimaced, as each photo showed a matched pair. The women all smiled too wide and their dresses were too large. The men varied, from confused (Goyle) to lecherous (Flint). None of the photos appeared to be in this department, however.

She could see the high arches of a fine Victorian church in one.

A forest in another.

Snape, who had been impossibly still, moved. Just a fraction, enough for the curtain of black hair to part around the shape of his nose. Not even the bright lights of the Marital Law Department Lobby could counteract his personal gloom. His head was angled away, but enough to see her. The glint of his eyes like black quartz between his damp hair, eerie and distant.

So he had noticed her arrival.

But he hadn’t moved to greet her, not even to breathe.

His gaze didn’t waver from her, though she swore his lips twitched upward. Not a smile, not a sneer, not anything she could pinpoint.

But he was alive, at least.

She wondered if he'd stunned himself to make the marriage process easier. She could hover him to the desk, though he’d have to sign the paperwork of his own volition. 

"You're looking well," she said, conversational in tone.

There was a sting to her mind when their eyes locked, though she felt nothing further. He always did that, that cursory inspection. She hadn’t realized it in her youth, but it wasn’t supposed to ache when someone met your eye.

He didn’t trust her or didn’t trust that it was her. She couldn’t blame him, given the nature of their meeting. She almost didn’t believe she was here either, ready to be married to him.

He looked over her with bored scrutiny and she dropped the notion of conversation.

Instead, she looked at the books on the white table. They were laid out in a specific pile. They were decor, she surmised, not to be read. It made her nose twitch, the dust that laid on them. She waved a hand to clean them, which caused another twitch to his lips.

But no words.

She looked at the words on the books, for at least books were easy to understand. Each had a miserable title, such as Arranging Yourself For Marriage: A Guide To Compulsory Affection. She shifted the top book, enough to read the next title.

The Magic of Magical Pregnancy.

She shoved the top book back into place.

Her stomach dropped as if she might be the one who was ill. Her head snapped up as she heard the heavy footfall of a girl who’d never had to sneak around, who’d never scrounged for food behind cafes, who’d not been assigned to marry Snape -- 

"You’re such a cute couple already," Bianca said, her hands tucked beneath her chin. “So sweet.”

Snape pivoted his attention to the girl, and she jumped as Hermione had.

“Just that, both of you, you seem so -- well, it’s about your personalities, you know, not flashy, not...”

Snape blinked long and slow.

Hermione felt her nausea spike again.

"So, you, um, is this..." She trailed off, her fingers wove between the two of them. "Do neither of you have anyone?"

Hermione shook her head, while Snape remained still.

"That’s really... No friends? No... No family??"

"Do you wish for me to partake in some veritaserum,” Snape began, his voice like an itchy woolen sweater. “So as to explain how alone we both are."

Bianca flinched as if he'd slapped her.

"Where's the officiator." He flexed his fingers and had the tact to at least keep the same sneer.

Bianca vanished down the hallway, though not before a series of babbles and platitudes, sorry, oh, I’ll go get them, just wait, how exciting. She didn’t stop, either, not as she skipped down the hallway.

As if she were pleased about the arrangement.

"Are you ill?" Hermione said, unsure. 

"Do I seem ill?"

"No, it's just," Hermione looked him over once, her brows tilted to wrinkle her forehead. "I was just asking."

“Don’t.”

“Well, I -- “ Hermione caught her voice before it wavered. “If we’re to be married, even as a farce, I should be able to ask you questions about your health.”

“My health is my own,” his voice never rose above boredom, though she honed in her attention on him. Perhaps he was more like a moth than a person, who used scent to communicate.

He smelled of shredded Boomslang skin and fluxweed, were she to guess. They were pungent ingredients, they clung to your hands and your clothes. Her nose twitched. Something floral.

“I asked to be polite,” Hermione rolled her jaw, to catch the urge to snap at him. She had graduated from fear.

"Do not mistake my compliance in this arrangement for affection," he said, his tone level. "As you pointed out, this Clause is a farce. It relies on a mixture of fabricated historical documentation and Divination.”

“Divination?” Hermione breathed, her eyelids fluttered. She couldn’t bite down the nasty smile that formed. it was the same smile gave to Trelawney through her first few classes when she’d tried to pretend that Divination was real.

Snape’s expression fell, enough that she noticed, and her cheeks went hot. She swallowed hard, her gaze returned to the hallway ahead of them. She preferred it when he didn’t move.

She looked down at her wrist which bore the mercurial dots along the soft flesh. Each dot was hard to the touch, like a piercing she’d not agreed to. They weren’t something she could pick out or dismiss. She couldn’t vanish them, nor could she pull them out.

She had tried.

Snape had the same black robes with tailored sleeves and a high neck. She hoped she’d never see more of him, though her breath caught in her throat as she realized that the markings would be on his left wrist. 

”They used the stars to align pairs. I worry for you if I have to explain that constellations,” his gaze flicked to her wrist. “Being used to assign romantic fates is Divination.”

“I thought it might be Astronomy, though that’s no better.” Hermione gritted her teeth at the mention of Divination.

"Capricorn; Virgo," he said, a long cool look passed over her, his lip sneered at the edge. "Suffice to say, I am no more excited by this than you are."

"Star signs!" Hermione shrieked so loud the portraits faltered in their smiles. The woman behind the metal desk looked up, her shadowed eyes a coral pink. “Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all.

“I know you’re excited, please don’t shout,” the woman behind the counter sang, her voice like molasses.

"They're relying on Divination to select partners?" She caught herself before she continued, but it hurt her throat to keep her voice down. "They're using -- star signs?"

"In part," he rolled his gaze down the hall, his lips pursed. "I imagined you of all people would be dedicated to investigating the nature of the arrangements."

"Well, there's not much known, except they're shoving Muggleborns into the arms of halfbloods or purebloods," Hermione exhaled sharply.

Snape leveled a glance at her until she caught it. He didn't panic or flinch when she met his eye. Instead, he smiled, faintly, and she felt her stomach lurch.

"They're coming.” He extended a slender hand towards her.

She'd never looked at his hands much, not outside of Potions. They were immaculate, trimmed nails, clean edges, buffed and cared for.

And then she realized she'd been staring at the hand, rather than accepting it.

His hand was warm. She hadn't expected that. Something about how he looked made her think he’d be cold to her touch, like a stone wall. Instead, he felt like a fresh cup of tea. It was uncomfortable, if she was honest, how boiling hot they were.

She'd been ready for him to feel like a corpse, not a fireplace.

Habitually, she tucked herself closer to him, her cheek to his shoulder, and the warmth extended. She felt lighter at least as if she weren’t alone. The fever she’d had since St. Mungo’s faded, in comparison to the heat he exuded. He looked miserable beside her.

It didn’t change anything. It didn’t make the experience any more pleasant, not as they turned with mechanical tandem towards Bianca and the officiator.

He was gnarled, with a knobbly forehead and a heavy brow. He had dress robes on and his hair was slicked to the side. It wasn’t his attire or grooming that alerted her, rather it was the battle-worn quality to his face.

Her gaze darted to his left forearm though it remained obscured by his sleeve. She was sure she’d see a Dark Mark beneath it, were she to shove the sleeve away.

She fought the urge to touch his arm, to look for the mark.

“Ah, a practical couple,” he said, his gaze fixed to Hermione. “Not the wedding type, dove?”

Snape snatched his hand away from her as she tried to sneak beneath his arm. She didn’t know why. It just seemed like a nice place to be — didn’t it?

With his hand free of hers, she felt cold. Clammy and overdressed, like she’d woken up in a sweat after a nightmare. She shot a reproachful look at Snape as if he’d done something to her. He must have, given how she cuddled close to him without hesitation.

“May we proceed,” Snape exhaled, his voice tense. “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

“Yes, yes, Severus,” the man cooed as if he were soothing a toddler.

Hermione didn’t have to look at Snape to see the fear. His fear might be different than hers, but it was based in the same mutual fear; that they didn’t want this. He didn’t want her, she didn’t want him. 

It could be worse.

She remained stony-faced as the man turned, though she did catch Snape’s eye. It was fleeting and brief. 

He looked more miserable than her if that were possible.

The elevator clanged open behind them as four Snatchers appeared. She recognized them as Snatchers as their faces had been provided along with her reports. She didn’t need the photos, of course. Not as she saw one man strut past her with a wink and her scarf wrapped around his neck.

“She isn’t going to run,” Snape said, impatient in his voice. “Must we muddy the process with…”

“What, Sev?” The tallest man said with long dirty hair and too much leather. He smelled like a forest.

Hermione hated forests.

Behind two of the men was a young girl with tears in her eyes. Her robes were torn along her arm, where a constellation laid. Each mark was bleeding profusely, though it was difficult to make out as she had chains on her arms. Four sets of manacles ran the length of her arms, from her wrist to her elbow. They linked to her throat with an ethereal, silver wisp.

Her eyes widened so fast she felt them dry out.

That was Natalie Woart.

She was a Ravenclaw girl she’d shared Arithmancy and Ancient Runes with.

They’d attended their Eighth year together after the war.

She wouldn’t meet Hermione’s eye.

“Caught a runner,” their sharp-toothed leader said. His teeth weren’t wolfish, not in a way that matched any werewolves she knew.

They looked like they’d been filed sharp. It was an intimidation tactic, one that made her turn her attention away. Back to Natalie, back to the girl she shared notes with. The girl who shook beside the Snatchers, her head bent down and her arm dripping blood onto the cream carpet.

Why hadn’t she reached out? They could have put her into hiding or sent her to France.

But the Order hadn’t stepped in once, not for any of the other girls.

They hadn’t even tried to save her.

The stout man with too many tattoos yanked on her hair to keep her in place and Hermione stepped forward. Snape moved to stand in front of her, though he moved closer to their leader with the movement. She didn’t know if that was intentional. She dismissed it.

“Why bring her here, Scabior?” Snape idled, his hands folded.

“What, like I have to answer to you?” His gaze flickered to the girl who had no shoes and her hair was matted. “We’re returning her to her loving husband. Flint’s beside himself, so worried about her.”

Hermione didn’t miss how Natalie shook at the mention of Flint’s name. Her gaze slid to the beautiful photo of them in the Victorian church, smiling, brilliant.

“We’d do the same for you and your Mudblood.” Scabior poked his lip out, his head tipped to look at Hermione past Snape’s shoulder. “She’s tasty though, don’t know if we’d get her back to you too quick — “

Hermione’s hand darted to her pocket, but she hadn’t a chance.

Her wand spiraled from her grip and into the air.

Scabior caught it and twirled it between his fingers. He offered it handle first to Snape with a tut of his tongue. “Good luck with her, she’s a right cunt. Got the Malfoys killed — surprised ol’ Trix is even letting her marry. Shoulda just — ” and he mimed a killing curse at her with a wink.

His men laughed and shuffled on the spot. Natalie strained against their grip, but whatever restraints they’d slapped on her sapped what magic she must have. The room began to smell like burnt bacon, and the slight shift of the manacles revealed burned skin. They looked heavy, wrapped in iron and silver.

Snape snatched the wand and Hermione’s upper arm, one after the other. He shoved her along the hallway, away from Natalie, away from the stench of the forest and burnt flesh, away from the sight of her old pink scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scabior is such a fun villain, I'm confused as to why people don't utilize him more. I apologize if you don't like him but -- he'll appear a few times more. 🙏🙏


	7. Chapter 7

**Saturday — August 11th, 2001.**

The severity of the Muggleborn marriages had never been a secret to her. The nature of it alone gave her the details she needed and what little information the Daily Prophet provided threw further doubts. She had made her assumptions about what happened to the Muggleborn women in it. But to see the desperation in person was a different experience than imagining it, and she couldn't shake it from her mind. She didn’t know why Natalie looked so haggard. She didn't know if it had been by Flint’s hand or the Snatchers who had found her.

There was no limitations on her magic. Not that she’d been made aware of. She was able to come and go as she pleased. But they had taken her hair and her blood. If they ever had a reason to Trace her, she had given them the tools to do so, under the guise of health concerns.

At least she still had her wand.

Which was in Snape’s hand right now. 

Panic broke through her chest as she followed behind Snape by force. He kept her bicep in his grip as if he didn't trust her to follow, his jaw set in a hard line. He hadn’t spoken, not that she expected him to. She didn’t know Snatchers turned up to the Ministry as welcomed guests.

Why had no one mentioned this?

Perhaps it hadn't needed to be said. The Order was too fixated on the battle with the fictitious remains of Voldemort. They never spoke of the girls or the arranged marriages, not until she had been cornered into it. They had made a limp effort to defend her but not much more than that. That was her fault. She hadn't asked. But there was no use in asking.

Her heart pounded in her chest. All this time she’d been under the assumption that both sides had come to a glacial stop. But to see Snatchers brought in as freelance militia, in the interest of retrieving the girls who ran from the program —

She felt so stupid.

“What are they going to do with her?” She asked, unsure she wanted an answer.

“They'll return her to Flint,” Snape answered in a sharp voice.

“Do you know — “

“I don’t speak with Flint.” They stopped outside of a small conference room with low lighting and a wide stone table. While the office had been updated, this specific location looked more archaic than anything else she’d seen. It was a ritual stone, one where deals were forged. They were usually smaller so as to be more portable, but this one appeared to have been secured her. She wondered if it was a specific rune stone for the Marital Clause or if they'd corrupted an existing ritual stone.

Her stomach plummeted.

“Right, so,” the rough-looking man huffed. “I’m Official McGuire. From what I understand, you don’t want to have a long ceremony.”

“Not in the least,” Snape said, which matched her feelings exactly.

“Sure, busy, I getcha,” he splayed his hands on the stone which began to light up, one rune at a time. She didn't recognize the symbols which worried her further. “We still need to perform the bonding ritual.”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered as she picked through her knowledge about magical marriage. She’d skimmed several books on the subject but there wasn’t much available to her. She had been to Fleur and Bill’s wedding, which had matched a Muggle wedding in many ways. There was just an incantation to bond them and a spell that wove between their hands.

That, and a signature.

The Snatchers had paced along now to stand outside of the conference room. She could see their shadows through the window. Their eyes glinted through the slats.

“Some ah, expectations," McGuire said as he adjusted his glasses. He stared at Hermione as if Snape wasn’t there. “This is a strict arrangement. If you are found to be lying, cheating or deceiving your husband, you will be punished. If you attack your husband, you will be detained at Azkaban for trial. I will warn you, most wives who end up in Azkaban die before their trial; their weak hearts can’t survive, you understand.”

No, she didn’t understand.

“Traditionally a marriage is enacted with mutual assurances. Your husband will keep you safe. He will provide for you. He will pleasure you — “

The Snatchers hollered through the window and smacked on the frame.

McGuide paled. “You are expected to do the same in return. You are to be agreeable. You are to be compliant. You are to work towards a brighter future for the Wizarding world.”

“That’s a lie,” Hermione said with no tone to her voice. “This has no light in this.”

“I’m sorry you can’t see the bigger picture,” he gave a simpering smile, his hands raised with white light around them. “Present your constellations.”

“This is ridiculous.” Hermione shot the Snatchers a dirty look through the window. Her skin crawled as they leaned on the glass. Even if she changed her mind, she'd have no way to run.

Snape shifted his sleeve, though he didn’t speak. He looked ill. She eyed the smattering of mercurial stars that sat against his Dark Mark. The black and silver ate one another, back and forth.

She fought the temptation to reach out to touch his arm, to see if it was real. Instead, she matched his movements, to show her left arm.

The glimmers were brighter now.

They reacted to his.

This couldn’t be real.

“Well, hold hands,” McGuire said, impatience thick in his tone. He kept rotating his gaze between them and the Snatchers by the door. They were there to make sure she went through with it. If she didn’t, she’d be off to Azkaban in seconds.

She wouldn’t even get to say goodbye.

Hermione turned to face Snape, tears down her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying, she had been so busy with her anger and her spite. She didn’t look at the Snatchers or at McGuire or Bianca.

She stared at Snape, begging him to reject.

Maybe if he said no —

He reached out and took her hand as if it were broken glass. He didn’t hold her hand too tightly or look at their hands at all. He was focused on her eyes in a way she hadn’t experienced since school. He used to look into her eyes to pick through her memories.

He knew about the Polyjuice Potion.

He knew about how she sneaked around the castle at night.

He knew about her crush on Ron. How she cried about it. How she cursed birds to slam into the wall.

He knew about her far less proud crush on Draco. It wasn’t a crush, she amended. It was a mild fascination, with how proficient he was at Potions or how elegant his wandwork was. Snape picked apart her bleeding heart, how she reached out to the boy if she saw him in the Library. Snape saw how it made her cry, to care about someone who wanted her dead.

Worst of all, he knew what she thought about him.

Dark, domineering, cruel.

Cold.

But that wasn’t true, not as it had been in her younger years. She had thought he would be cold to her touch like ice. Instead, his hands were warm, much like her father’s hands.

But that was the issue. He wasn’t a man she could see as a husband; he was a strange uncle at best, one who kept to the back of the family photos and ate all the fruit cake because it was wasteful not to.

He wasn’t a husband; she wasn’t a wife.

Snape dug into his breast pocket to withdraw two rings, which he held in his right hand. She didn’t see them, not enough to distinguish them. They looked like plain silver bands.

The room felt empty, except for him.

The sound emptied.

The lights dimmed.

It was like a planetarium, with how the light swirled above them. Their constellation shone brightest above them, a slow crawl of green and silver lights. McGuide stared at it, confusion in his eyes, but he didn't speak on it. Instead he traced the runes and mumbled words in Latin; gibberish, Hermione decided. She didn't know how real this ritual was, but it didn't strike her as ancient.

Their constellations floated above their forearms, his marked with bright green swirls while hers remained silver.

A familiar silver.

And then it was over. The weight of his grip strengthened as the spell worked their palms together. She was worried they’d be stuck together as the green and silver wrapped tighter around her, too tight. She grit her teeth from the pain. McGuire had spoken Latin phrases of love and fertility, of promises and of pleasures, and she wanted to be sick on the cheap blue carpet.

“Do you, Severus Snape, agree to take Hermione Jean Granger as yours.”

“I do,” he said, with no conviction behind his words.

“Do you, Hermione Jean Granger, submit yourself to Severus Snape?”

Oh, she had several thoughts about the phrasing of all this.

“I do,” she ground out with equal force.

Snape reached out to slip a ring onto her finger. It was simple and silver, with dragons etched into the sides. He forewent her offer to take the second ring from him, to slip on the thin silver band with nothing more ornate that a single line carved around the entire thing.

At first she thought she’d done something wrong. Everything stopped. The lights rose, the runestone beneath them flickered. The Snatchers outside came back into focus, though she didn’t pay them any mind. They were jeering at Snape, about things she didn’t care to process.

Snape yanked his sleeve back down the second their hands came apart. Her palm was sweaty and it ached. The pain ran in sharp bursts from her fingertips to her elbow. It felt…

Something was wrong.

She didn’t know what.

But something was definitely wrong.

She didn’t say anything. Perhaps the ceremony had failed. She took solace in that. Perhaps as they hadn’t meant it, it hadn’t taken. They would decide that she’d tried her best but the marriage wasn’t meant to be.

She held this hope until McGuire waved a hand, so that the runestone produced a certificate. It was a strange intersection of Muggle and magical. She saw her name and Snape’s listed, and their constellation stamped in the center.

A wide purple seal sat in the corner, with the department and the date stamped on it.

It was official.

Snape snatched the certificate to examine it. With a wave of his hand, his name was scrawled on the dotted line. He looked over it once more before it vanished with a nod.

“Congratulations,” McGuire said with a sad slant to his lips.

"Excuse me! I didn't get to sign it!" She wanted to slap him. The audacity of this awful man, thinking that he had any place to be sad. He was the one who’d participated, he was the one who’d damned her.

She hadn’t even gotten to _read_ it.

The word ' _furious_ ' didn't begin to summarize her feelings.

“Come,” Snape said with a jerk of his head towards the open door.

“Bet she won’t,” Scabior hissed as they exited. “Should’a consummated it on the rune — what, don’t have ten seconds?”

Laughter, raucous and cruel. Hermione didn’t care. She wished to be out of this place. 

Snape gestured wide to encourage her ahead of him.

A scream sounded in the hallway. Hermione had kept in careful step behind Snape, though she cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. Scabior had broken out in massive pus-filled boils that popped and splattered onto his friends. It appeared to be contagious. Their hands, where they’d grabbed him to still him, began to swell. 

“May I have my wand — ”

Snape shoved it into her waiting hand. He hurried her ahead of him, like she was in his way. She jogged down the hallway, her chest tight as she listened to the screams.

But then the screams stopped, which was worse. She hoped they weren't dead, as if Snape wanted to go to Azkaban, he could have done so before they'd been married.

Then the screams began again, more out of anger than agony. She shifted to stand closer to the elevator, her head turned to watch the numbers.

Snape seemed unaffected, cool indifference his natural state. He stood between her and the hallway, the shape of him enough to occlude her from the vision of the hallway. His presence was suffocating and she was sure he'd stood so close with reason.

"What did you do?" Hermione said, so swottish she flinched.

He stretched his arm, the left one, with a flourish.

“He’s going to go after you.”

“That’s his mistake.”

Hermione frowned past Snape. “Don’t be childish.”

Snape pivoted his head to look at her, glittering black eyes framed beneath a heavy brow. “Are you going to be insufferable for the duration of your marriage, Hermione.”

Hermione snorted at the phrase ‘your’ marriage, as if it were all on her. “When did I become Hermione?”

The heavy stomp of feet began in their direction. Scabior and his tattooed friend skidded into the wall, their wands drawn and their eyes livid. The elevator landed on their floor. Hermione felt her heartbeat quicken as she begged the doors to pry open. She resisted the urge to open them herself.

They were running, closer and closer.

A wand raised.

Hermione closed her eyes, her arm raised with _Protego_ on the tip of her tongue. She was ready.

If they got too close, if they gave her reason to hurt them…

They slammed into an invisible wall.

Hermione swore that was the first time she’d seen Snape smile.

When he had stretched, she realized with distant amusement. He’d warded the hallway.

"In," he waved her into the elevator.

The Snatchers slammed their fists on the invisible division he’d constructed. Scabior drew out a small silver knife, which he drove through the ward. It shimmered around the edges like spun sugar that had caught fire. She watched with wide eyes as they pried the ward apart, though it sizzled around their fingers. 

The elevator doors clanged shut behind Snape. He didn’t turn to look at them and instead focused down on her.

The last thing she saw of them was their wands. They had crammed them between the bars as if that’d help their spells land.

But the elevator shot backward into the darkness, their spells flying wide.

One wand snapped.

Snape smirked.

She didn’t like this side of him.

“As to why I called you Hermione — I see no sense in calling you Granger,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And I refuse to use pet names. Nor will I call you my wife. Not unless it’s pertinent.”

“Should I call you Severus?”

“I don’t care what you call me.” He said with a sickly grin. He shook off the expression as he looked at the elevator over his shoulder for their anticipated floor.

“Sevvy?”

“I — “ Snape glared at her. “I should hope you respect both of us more than that.”

It was easier to joke with adrenaline in her veins. She doubted it’d be so easy when it came to their duty to the Wizarding world. They weren’t required to procreate, but she expected pressure from Auger or Umbridge or both. If she was a dead weight in their bright future, she may very well vanish into the shadows.

Hermione leaned against the wall, her arms crossed.

“Did you know.”

“I knew about your evaluation,” Snape answered, which wasn’t really an answer. He had been the reason she had any mental preparation. If she’d received the letter blind, she might not have taken it so well.

She might have panicked or ended up on the run.

Hermione thought better than to discuss in the elevator. She had more questions, as they bubbled beneath her tongue and in the depths of her mind.

The elevator landed in the lobby, though she didn't realize at first. The doors opened behind her rather than in front. She didn't move, confused before she realized that she was alone. Snape had headed towards Guest Apparition Chamber without her with long, slick strides. She followed in swift pursuit, her steps twice as fast as his. He stood half a foot taller than her, which was enough to make her hurry.

“Am I to — “

Snape grabbed her wrist and she obliged. She didn’t like how he grabbed her, but she’d endure it until she could speak freely. The Ministry was a hotbed for Death Eaters. The last thing she wanted to do was give him a reason to show his dominance over her through torture or cruelty.

His grip softened as if he’d picked the thought from her skin.

They rounded the decorative fountain with the orbs of blood. She noticed the fountain itself was blood, which she'd missed on her way here. She eyed it with abject misery, not sure she wanted to know how they'd gotten so much blood. It smelled of cooper and rotten flesh.

In the distance she could hear Bianca shouting. Several men were shouting, too.

He shoved her into Number Seven, the same one she’d arrived in.

She tripped up the stairs and caught herself on the opposite wall. Her brow furrowed as she turned, to scowl at Snape.

The sound of doors being blown off their hinges began, one after the other. He yanked her close, his arm around her, and they vanished.

The last thing she saw was her pink scarf through scraps of wood.

Explosions, screams.

Dark hair.

Darkness.

They arrived with no sound. Nothing specific, not as she burrowed into the black cloak in front of her. She blinked several times before she processed who had brought her here, and all meekness flushed from her system.

She shoved him hard in the chest though he didn’t move. He had a sturdy stance, so she instead stumbled backward, her eyes wild and her hair strayed from her braid.

Hermione had an ever-increasing pile of things she'd never expected. She'd never expected to hold Snape's hand, or to burrow into Snape’s chest, or to go to Snape's house. Least of all she didn't expect to be slung into Snape's arms as a newly minted bride, expected to be as demure and pleasant as possible.

But as she stood in a tiny, suffocating study with a dead fireplace and so many books laid in messy piles — her breath caught in her throat.

“Where are we?”

“Where do you think,” he said with snide derision.

She had never seen him look so insecure as he did now, stood in the middle of his dusty home. She looked around for something to remark on, something nice, but nothing came to her.

"You're aware you're under a contract, Hermione." His voice was colder than the Ministry lobby. "Anything you learn here must stay here. The location as much as anything we discuss."

“I’m aware,” she said, her voice flat. She raised her left hand to flash the band, which had ethereal shapes strung between the constellations. They were gossamer, like a spider’s web, but wouldn’t catch. She tried to catch one of the threads with her index finger but it felt like putting her hand through a ghost.

Like something was there, but…

Not.

“This is Spinner’s End,” he moved towards the kitchen without waiting for her. She followed though the kitchen was too small for both of them to stand in at the same time. It was a galley kitchen with old Muggle appliances. He flicked a switch and the lights went on, which surprised her.

Perhaps he used as little magic as possible to reduce the impact on the ley lines. She empathized as she had done the same.

For all the good it did her.

“Should you get into an altercation, come to this house. Your ring is attuned to my study, so even if you have no wand, you will be able to come here.”

Hermione disguised her curiosity with spite. Her gaze dropped to the ring, which she looked as if they were a set of handcuffs. “Why not my apartment?”

“Your apartment isn’t going to remain safe.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione’s head popped backwards. Her stomach dropped as she thought of Ginny and Crookshanks, her throat dry as she fought the urge to Apparate there.

“The Snatchers know you live there; as do the Death Eaters. They suspect you’re hiding Order intel there, at the very least.” He slanted his gaze to the pantry, his eyes unfocused. “Ginny will be moved in with Ron and George as soon as possible.”

“When was this decided?”

Snape didn’t speak.

“When did everyone decide this?”

“No one else had decided it; I’m asking as much as telling you that for your own safety, I require you to move in here.”

“School starts in September,” Hermione said, her voice hollow. “Do you expect me to live at Hogwarts?”

“If you wish to remain here, you may.”

That was as much as a relief as it was a disappointment. She didn’t want to live with him, but she also didn’t want to have to move to Hogwarts to live with him either. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be the Potion master’s wife.

The staff of Hogwarts had shifted, as most of her previous teachers had been fired or quit. They had rotated the staff out, so the roles were filled by more ‘agreeable’ teachers. She didn’t want to go back to Hogwarts, not until she’d reinstated Minerva as the Headmistress.

She prayed the other teachers would want to return, once it was safe.

“I need to fetch Crookshanks.”

Snape smiled, which surprised her. He schooled his expression, so it was guarded rather than mirthful. “You may.”

Hermione gave him a suspicious look, as she had expected that to be an outright refusal. She almost shook him, to ask what he'd done with the real Snape.

“Pettigrew complained of the cat often, said that it tried to kill him more than once,” he almost smiled until he caught the tail of it, to yank his expression back to painful neutrality. “I should like to thank this Crookshanks.”

“So I have to move in here,” Hermione threw her hands up wide into the air. “I can’t just move somewhere else?”

“Where you live is the least important piece of information we have to discuss today.” He ground this out between his teeth, his jaw tense. “I implore you to listen before you argue with me. I don’t have the time nor patience to debate with you.”

Hermione frowned, her jaw rolled in small circles.

To her where she lived was pivotal. She couldn’t think of any topic more important than where she was expected to live.

Snape reached to the pantry, but rather than open it outward, he shoved the cabinet doors.

It disappeared into the wall on a hinge. The entrance was pitch black and cavernous.

“I want to remind you that my loyalty has always been to Lily Evans. By extension, to Potter,” he said, his tone sharp.

Hermione’s anger faltered for the sake of pity. The Potions master had provided more memories than any of them had known what to do with. His throat had since healed from Nagini’s attack, as he’d anticipated the attack with antivenin and a healing potion.

None of the Death Eaters knew he’d meant to have died, save for Bellatrix.

They didn’t speak about it.

Not about Harry, or Lily, or Dumbledore. In truth, Hermione avoided talking to Snape unless it was at a meeting for The Order.

Somehow, she hadn’t realized that marrying Snape would involve talking to Snape.

“And you’re loyal to the Order,” Hermione said in a small voice. She wasn’t sure if this was a confession, that he intended to lock her in the basement or to reveal he’d been on the side of the Death Eaters all along.

“The Order is a useful distraction if nothing else.”

Hermione’s mouth opened to protest, but she thought better of it. He disappeared into the space that the cabinet had left. She wasn’t sure if she was meant to follow him, or if he was out to retrieve something. When the door remained open and he didn’t return, she peaked in.

It was a series of stone steps into the depths of the earth.

She cast a small flameless light into her palm. This allowed her to keep her wand extended, ready to defend herself.

It was a deceptively long stairway with tight, damp walls. It dropped lower and lower, so much so that she couldn’t see the bottom, or where Snape had gone.

She couldn’t hear Snape, not as she straightened her neck and ears as if that’d help. She crept down each step, her arm extended and the light her only hope. The exit had turned into a distant pinprick high above her, angled at forty-five degrees.

By the time she saw light, her foot had hit soft earth mixed with cragged cobblestone. 

It was a corridor that reminded her much of the ones at Hogwarts, though more unpolished. She frowned at the spread of them as she searched the cobblestone for an answer. Instead, she had to proceed blind. There was only one direction, after all, and so she walked on.

The slim corridor widened until a massive eight-spired central chamber opened up around her. Each spike of a hallway led to a short, shallow indent. A cauldron sat in each, with a different array of ingredients. They were organized, she recognized, but not the specific order. Just that there must be a reason for certain ingredients to be clustered together. In the center was a tall, broad circle of a bookshelf with more books than had been upstairs.

A series of tables were lined up around it in a circle, with plush armchairs of varying colors. The outer walls were equally adorned with books and vials. Herbs hung from pieces of string, cured to last. Whole bats hung upside-down from their ankles, their wings sliced off in thin leather straps. A small aquarium housed live frogs which sung to their deceased friends just above them, pinned open with a mixed set of missing organs.

Beautiful, but macabre.

It smelled, but not as bad as it should. A spicy, peppery scent overtook the rot. It was hot, she realized, far too hot. Her forehead was slick with sweat and she’d had to strip off her robes and her hoodie. She brushed at her face with the flat of her hand, which extinguished what little light was left in her palm.

She didn’t need it now anyway.

This place reminded her of the Hogwarts potions classroom. She had to wonder whether Severus had matched the style here on purpose. She was too nervous to ask.

It seemed like a personal thing.

One spike led to a further that the rest, but it was boxed in by a broad iron gate in front of it. A brilliant green light emanated from the end of the hallway, though the stones curved before she could spot the source.

She craned her neck as if that would help her to spot what was in there, but Snape appeared like a shadow.

“What was most important to you in the end,” he said, his voice cool. “Saving Harry or destroying Voldemort.”

“Aren’t those the same thing?” She said, her voice watery.

Something in Snape’s expression said no. He cast a sidelong glance at the gated iron hallway before he gestured to one of the nearby tables.

“You submitted yourself to me today,” he said, no regret or apprehension. He didn’t seem excited, either, which she was thankful for. “But I won’t force you to into this decision.”

“What decision?” Hermione felt her breath rattle through her nostrils.

“You heard me.”

_What was more important to you in the end — saving Harry or destroying Voldemort._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you for the comments and the support on the story, I promise to you that Draco will appear next chapter. I will again hazard that the Snape and Hermione relationship is part of the larger story!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Saturday — August 11th, 2001.**

  
Hermione stared at the grate across the hall, her gaze unable to break away from it. It flickered and bloomed in the dark, which gave the room a sense of green candlelight. She crossed her arms tighter, her throat tense as she endured her drop in adrenaline. Her teeth chattered, whether for the cold of the room or the sight of the Snatchers in pursuit.

Or the question; what mattered most to her.

“This is my personal study,” he began in a low voice. “If you need anything, you come here. Do not bother with St. Mungo’s, there is nothing more they can do for you than I can.”

“But they’re Healers — “

Snape’s head snapped with such force that she took a step back. “There is little a wand can do that a potion cannot. If you Apparate here directly, I will be notified.”

St. Mungo’s had never been a neutral ground after the Battle of Hogwarts. If it wasn’t neglect, then there were suspect disappearances or strange deaths. People would fade away from an arm injury, or ‘refuse food’. The Order avoided the place as a rule. 

Her mind lingered on her last trip to St. Mungo’s where they’d picked her apart. If she were to go there with injuries, they might attribute them to Snape.

Was he really that worried about being blamed for her wounds?

“For example,” Snape began, the roll of his baritone enough to recapture her attention. She felt like she was back in Potions, eager to catch the unspoken hints of a future class. “You lose an arm. The Snatchers are aware of your general appearance and your injury. You are sedated or wandless, at the very least. Where do you think the Snatchers are likely to check?”

“St. Mungo’s.” Hermione said, her voice empty. "And they'd even know which ward."

His lips curled in the shadows, but she couldn’t tell if that was a smile or a deeper scowl. He turned to look around the room before his gaze slotted back into hers, black ice locked with honey brown.

“I wouldn’t want to go there anyway.” She scrunched herself tighter as if it would help with the cold. She realized she may not be really cold. She felt more like she had the flu, shivering and too hot. She’d felt this way since the constellation had been administered. She was fighting an illness and losing. “Umbridge was there.”

“It is her program,” Snape said with distinct bitterness.

“You knew about that?” She wished she could return the favor, that she could slide into his eyes and peruse his memories. But all she had was the confusing, mismatched tells that didn’t help. It was easier not to look at him, to use her ears to pick apart his change in mood.

“I can’t be sure of the shape of her plans, but there was no doubt a reason behind it.” He spoke in an equally flat tone as he pointed out the reality, piece by piece. “She used _Imperio_. But you resisted.”

“She didn’t try very hard,” Hermione snorted.

“False modesty doesn’t suit you.” He ran his index finger and thumb in small circles as he watched her before his thumb dipped to the silver band. “I imagine she wanted to gain control of you to monitor whoever you married. Perhaps to sabotage you, make you run.”

Such a thought had slipped Hermione’s mind. She had resisted the Unforgivable Curse through her ability to compartmentalize herself to maintain logic. She shuffled the pieces of her mind out of the way, the urge to do what felt good, for the sake of what was right.

Which was maintaining her freedom, even in some small, simple way.

“She may try again, but I’ll know.”

“How?”

“Do you doubt me?” Snape smirked. “Whether you tell me, or I glean it from you in passing, you scream your thoughts all around you.”

Hermione turned red around her ears and cheeks. She blamed the heat of the room.

“You beg people to hear what you think.”

Hermione didn't look at him.

“Do you really believe that she’d have put you under the Imperius curse for something as simple as your arms being restrained. That she would have released control? There are far easier methods to achieve such a simple, short-term outcome than an Unforgivable Curse.”

Hermione sank into a nearby chair, a hand pressed to her forehead.

“Now,” he cleared his throat. “What small fortune I have to provide you is that your dose of Stella Vinculum was, unfortunately, tampered with,” he said with a smirk that suggested it wasn’t unfortunate at all.

Hermione’s mind fogged as she tried to think of her dosage. She hadn’t been awake for the actual administration but it hadn’t been easy. They had complained that hers wouldn’t settle because of her head wound. “Tampered in what sense?”

“Traditionally, the constellations would track your location, among other things. That information is then transferred to mine,” he gestured to his marks. “It’s similar to the creation of a Dark Mark though not identical.”

Hermione felt like she should be taking notes.

“I wasn’t consulted in the creation of this so-called Stella Vinculum. Had I been,” he said, with a morose sigh. “I would have informed them that someone with Occlumency in any capacity can forgo the tracking elements they’ve instilled.”

“You intentionally blocked it?” She squinted at him.

“You did — though the people in charge used an outdated strain of Veritaserum, with too much Moonstone Powder so as to negate the juice from the Sopophorous Bean. Still effective, but easier to resist… Even for someone with limited Occlumency,” he sighed as if it were a personal insult. “Given my proclivity for Occlumency and my lack of interest in you altogether — matched with your outright resistance and the weak Veritaserum as a base — your constellation is half-formed.”

“I don’t know Occlumency — ”

“Perhaps you don’t realize you’re doing it, but you do. But even if you hadn’t tried to resist the potion, even a child could have withstood the deeper bonding mechanisms.”

“If it had taken completely,” Hermione fidgeted with her hand. “What would have happened?”

“You would be able to keep no secrets from me, in any capacity. You would be suggestible, pliable, otherwise — committed, to your submission.”

Hermione felt green around the edges.

“But given the warped nature of your implantation, your marks are a subdermal array of — ” he examined the dots on her forearm, which she’d been staring at. “Silver. In a word, useless.”

“It’s on your left arm — does it interfere with your Dark Mark?”

“The silver comes from the Dark Mark,” Snape said in an even tone. “Each Muggleborn is given the Stella Vinculum which has a small portion of the ingredients from the creation of a Dark Mark… Silver being one of the ingredients.”

“Why silver?” Hermione said, blunt curiosity unable to be fought down. She felt the questions bubble beneath the surface as if she could crack the code if she just asked the right one.

“The Dark Lord used it to assist with the Protean charm, along with the balance between the so-called Dark magic and natural magical signature. The silver acts as a conduit, to draw the will into specific spots.”

It was strange to hear him speak with such clarity. He was reserved in any question about himself, but his knowledge of the Dark Arts elicited easy conversation. Hermione made note of it.

“So they would be able to track me through you, like how Voldemort tracked Death Eaters..?”

Snape folded his hands behind his back, disappointed in her for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint. His gaze remained fixed on the iron gate and the green light just beyond that.

“Bellatrix will be angry with you, won’t she. As will Umbridge.”

“I haven’t explained how it was tampered with,” Snape said, a flicker behind his eyes. “I selected you.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “But you have no interest in me — you just said.”

“Not sexually,” he spat as if it were the worst thing he could imagine. “But I couldn’t stand having a genuinely devoted wife, one who would float around me and be cloying. Even worse if she cared for me in any capacity. The Muggleborn girls who go through this process tend to be more malleable, for their own safety. They chase their husbands like puppies, and are inclined to breed like — “ he caught his venom as he met her eye. “I take no great pleasure in having a hostage.”

Hermione picked at the wood of the tabletop, her brow furrowed.

“When they found your address, it was expected that you would run.” Snape began to walk towards the stairs as if the conversation was finished. “They were going to use your own nature to kill you.”

“No, wait,” Hermione stood up, her hands scrunched by her sides. “So the constellation I have is… You picked it, to match yours.”

“I would have asked, but they may have checked your memories,” he said with a sneer. “Which would have negated the subterfuge. Hardly worth the risk.”

Hermione saw the grim logic in that thought, even if it hurt her to think about.

“The potion is a magnificent exercise in faulted will. Magnetism based on a magical signature, that’s a key element. The magnetism of anything can be flipped or shifted with ease,” he tongued his lips apart. “The marriage agreement is real, but if the Healers had done their job correctly, they’d have identified the failure of the Stella Vinculum. It took in aesthetics alone, but the stretch beyond that has limited because of our equal apprehension. But they’re overworked, underpaid and unlikely to admit failure, even if they had noticed it.”

“Do you know who I was meant to be with?”

“Does it matter?”

Hermione stared at the floor, her expression faded. “I suppose not.”

Snape’s lips twitched at the corner. “All that I knew was that I needed you loyal to me.”

“Why?”

“This returns us to the question; at the end of the war, what did you wish to see more,” Snape repeated, shrouded in the shadows by the exit. “Did you want to see Harry survive or Voldemort fall.”

Hermione was trapped between what felt like the righteous response and the one that felt truer to her. She scraped her nails against the tabletop, her throat tense and her eyes watering. She wasn’t sure what she had expected of today, but she felt worse about the marriage.

If Snape could tamper with it, why hadn’t he given her a constellation that didn’t match anything?

Why didn’t he make it fail altogether?

“Harry,” Hermione said after a long moment of silence. “I… I wish that Harry had survived. Because, even if Voldemort survived too, I…” Hermione hated herself at that moment, as tears began to fall down her face. She buried her arms into the bare skin of her forearms, her head tucked close to the crook of her arm. 

Snape remained static by the exit as if he were ready to run up the stairs. He hadn’t looked at her much through their conversation. He seemed preoccupied with the green light beyond the iron gate.

“Even if Voldemort survived, I know Harry would have gotten him eventually,” Hermione finished, her lip quivered and her face bright red in the dark. “Why does it matter to you so much?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his left hand twitched.

“That Snatcher said we have to consummate our marriage — “

“That isn’t for you to worry about.”

“I disagree,” Hermione snorted. “It’s my body after all. It’s entirely something for me to worry about.”

“Consummation isn’t a government mandate, nor is it something I want from you.” His voice dripped with a threat as if he’d hex her if she even came within three feet of him. “In any capacity.”

“Okay,” Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, though it shuddered between the loose shape of her jaw. “But if people ask…”

Snape was eerily quiet, still halfway in the shadows. He had to go, but he hadn’t. 

Not yet.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you — ”

And he vanished.

He’d Apparated, she knew that much, but it had been soundless. She wasn’t sure he’d even apologized at first. She didn’t know what he was sorry for. She was left in his private stores with her word that she was loyal to him.

Not that she had much of a choice.

The constellations may not be as concrete, but the fact she now existed as Mrs. Hermione Snape hadn’t eluded her. The marriage ceremony had been real enough. What good was free will if you remained boxed in a silver cage to a man you didn’t care for?

And so she cried.

It was gentle at first, a small private sob like she’d misunderstood an essay prompt and written the wrong thing. Then deeper, worse, like the tears she’d shed after her parents forget her. By her own hand, but still, it carved a hole in her chest she’d not yet closed.

She cried so loud she was afraid she’d scare her neighbors.

Except that she was in the bowls of a basement, with dirt walls and cobblestone floors. There was the stairway upward, and the gate with the green light.

It had been an hour of sobbing, or it felt like an hour. She had no idea how long it had been since the wedding, or when they’d arrived. Or even when he’d left. She pushed up from the table with shaky limbs. She wanted to look at the bottles to see what he had on hand, but her eyes hurt too much for that.

Instead, she moved closer to the iron gate with the green light.

The hallway beyond it was curved so she couldn’t see where it ended. It seemed to creep around and further down. The idea that this cavern could go even lower made her stomach flip. She hated depths and heights in equal measure.

She waved a hand at the iron gate and took three steps back when the wards hissed and shimmered. There were dozens of wards, more than she’d even been able to identify. Though it were open and visible, she might as well have tried to break back into Gringotts for how difficult it would be.

Sigils flickered in front of her, along with several riddles. An alternating pattern of curses pulsed, and if she were to touch even one of them, she might die. She didn’t know, nor could she, not without the intent to break them.

Were she to guess, she would say that it was a further storage room. Perhaps dangerous items were stored down there, or live creatures that were used for making potions. If a menagerie was downstairs, she didn’t want to unleash it on a tiny Muggle home.

But he hadn’t barred her from this place.

Perhaps she could inspect it further, once…

Once she lived here.

Her urge to be sick resurfaced.

The image of Natalie at the Ministry followed, as a grim reminder of the life she could have had. And, if Snape were to die, that could have been her future. They may decide to manipulate her stars or say that she’d lied, as an excuse to kill her. Or they’d forced her into another arrangement as a way to keep her monitored.

She was thankful she’d been snatched up by Snape, by his own admission.

Snape hadn’t given her instructions on what she was expected to do. She didn’t answer to him, nor did she expect him to control her schedule. But given his demand that she move in with him, she at least had to collect her things…

That went without saying, didn’t it?

Hermione closed her eyes and thought of her apartment. Her hesitation to Apparate there had stemmed from the fear that she was being tracked. But given this would be her last trip there, it seemed foolish to be afraid of that.

They knew where she lived.

As she felt the atmosphere shift, too tight then loose once more, she relaxed. The jump had been far longer than she expected, as she arrived with a heaviness in her chest like she’d run a marathon. She tensed her jaw and wore through the exhaustion, not sure how far her apartment had been from Snape’s house. 

She took a deep breath and tasted copper. Her eyes snapped open, wide at the room around her.

Windows smashed. Doors unhinged, shattered.

Bodies.

Three of them.

No one she recognized she realized with intense relief.

Her knees shook as she pieced together her apartment. The windows in the kitchen were shattered. The pantry had been emptied on the floor. She turned to look at the front door, which had been blown off its hinges. She crept through the broken glass and fragments of wood on the floor.

At first, she thought the men were unconscious. Maybe they’d surprised Ginny, who’d come home from her Quidditch match early.

But Ginny’s broom was missing from where she usually leaned it. That didn’t mean anything. It could be anywhere.

Each body was twisted in unnatural ways, even for a jinx. They were bleeding too from their ears and eyes. What little part she could see of their eyes were empty red sockets, mashed and mixed like someone had dug their thumbs into their eyes and twisted until it was mush.

One was heavily tattooed, wide.

Oh.

She recognized him.

Her memory whirred. While the other two didn’t strike her as especially familiar, she had seen the fat tattooed Snatcher at the Ministry. They’d been so angry — they’d used their knowledge of her home to come for her, to spite Snape for his hex. Her gaze snapped around the empty walls, spatters of blood and glass everywhere. Water flowed from the bathroom, sourceless past the frame of the door.

A cold shiver ran the length of her back.

Had it really been that easy for them to break in?

They could have come here at any time they liked.

They knew where she’d lived.

She crept through the apartment with her wand raised. The mirror in her bathroom had been shattered and their potions were scattered on the floor. The glass screen around the shower laid in thick shards across the floor. The toilet spewed water from the broken tank, paper, and magazines floating. She grimaced and charmed a small invisible wall to stop the water and ceased the flow.

There was no pattern to their violence, save for the desperate need to destroy.

There was no sound in the apartment, nothing to alert her. She expected that forth Snatcher to appear, the one Snape had called Scabior. Her heart was too quick in her head. She should leave. She should go back to Snape’s, to wait for the Order.

The distant curious mewl of Crookshanks sent her into a panic.

Her heartbeat so hard she was sure it’d bruise her lungs. She had to get Crookshanks and get out. She needed to get the word to Ginny, and to the Order.

She had so much she needed to do, she needed to get out with Crookshanks most of all.

She rushed the last few steps to her bedroom where she saw him beneath her bed. He hissed at the sight of her, and she felt her heart break.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay, I’m here — “

A hand latched to her hair, as her head was dragged back by the hank of her braid. Her hair came out in a thick chunk as they yanked her close. A hand snapped to her mouth, her wrist, a shift in posture too rough to contest. 

Once they had her close and pinned with the sheer force of their body and the wall in front of her. Their hand snaked around her wrists, too tight, the hard edge of their wands jabbed into her freshly minted forearm. She screamed against their palm, thick curses and hexes, but none took. She hadn’t any space to gesture, so her defensive magic was useless. 

Magic was more like archery than a shield by nature. No one was ever meant to be this close to her.

She was trapped, bodily, her head contorted with the force of their grip on her mouth. Tobacco clung to their fingers and filled their nose. Fresh grass, like she’d just ripped out handfuls from the earth. The contrast of crusty smoke and sharp grass made her head swirl.

Her sternum felt like it’d crack as the assailant pushed into her, their weight and height a clear advantage.

With a miserable ache in her head, she realized her last meaningful conversation with someone would be about sex with Severus Snape.

About how she was supremely unfuckable as if she couldn’t have died before she’d had to endure that.

The universe was a cruel thing.

Her mind fluttered with spells she could use, but they floated outside of her grasp.

“I’m disappointed Granger,” the voice brushed over her ear as her resistance waned. “If I’d been here to kill you, you’d be dead over that stupid fat cat.”

Hermione relaxed a little more in feigned submission. The stupid man behind her bought into it as his grip relaxed on her wrists.

Hermione snapped her head backwards into his face. It was easy to do, given he was pushing her head towards his.

She heard the crack with sick pride as she dug her fingers into his wrist. He kept his grip on the wands but she’d gained enough space to turn. Her back remained against the wall as she scrabbled for something. She settled for a floor lamp, which she wretched from the wall socket. It was long and metal, and if she swung it hard enough she may be able to hurt him.

Somehow, it made sense that Draco Malfoy had reappeared in her life for the expressed purpose of assaulting her in her ruined apartment. She’d had such a terrible day, it could only be made worse by the slant of his silver eyes and the tilt of his sneer.

“If you’re here to kill me Malfoy, just do it already,” she said as a challenge.

“I’m here to protect you.”

Hermione heaved a hysterical laugh, her voice wavered and her feet planted wide. “Oh, sure, I come back to my ruined apartment, and you assault me, and — and you’re here to protect me, of course! How stupid of me!” She swung the lamp at him, but she was too far away for it to make contact.

“Put the lamp down.”

“You put the lamp down!” She swung it harder this time like it were a sword. It was too unwieldy, so as the swing followed through she hit one of the men on the floor.

They were decidedly dead.

“You’re dead — you’re… You died, in the explosion at your mansion!” She threw the lamp at him, which he deflected with his wand. “I was there, I saw it happen!”

Hermione breathed, her teeth framed around her anger. Her braid was long since shaken out and she was still sweaty from Snape’s study. She smoothed her hair and her face with the flats of her hands, which were shaking.

He watched her with abject amusement, which made her want to pick up a chair or flick shattered CDs at him like they were throwing stars.

“I had a formal explanation prepared with Snape as an intermediary,” Malfoy raised his wand towards his face, tension in his eyes. A swift bone-setting charm made a loud crack, and what little blood that had formed vanished with another swipe. “But such plans were derailed by these useless lugs.”

“How did you know there were Snatchers here?” Hermione’s teeth clicked together. “Have you been stalking me?”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed to hers.

“Give me my wand,” Hermione extended her hand.

“If you promise not to hex me.”

Hermione’s fingers twitched. “I won’t hex you.”

“Or jinx, or curse,” Malfoy continued.

“I… I won’t.”

“For your sake, you better not,” he shot a tense look at her. There was no softness in his tone, no sense of a joke. He slipped the wand to her, though his eyes were guarded.

He kept a cool, intense gaze fixed on her, as he watched to make sure she didn’t lash out at him.

She hadn’t ever noticed that his eyes were silver until she’d seen them in the mansion.

By then it’d been too late.

“May I tell Ginny that the apartment was attacked?” She said, her voice cautious. “So she doesn’t come back?”

Malfoy’s throat strained and his eyes narrowed. “You need to pack and be out of here. If you notify the Order, they’ll insist on coming to the rescue.”

“I’ll notify her when I leave then.”

Malfoy was at ease despite the dead bodies around him. The room had begun to smell of copper and sweat, with the thick heat of summer no help. Hermione would have felt a deeper remorse were they not Snatchers, out to tear her home apart. She examined the shattered picture frames, the bent over elements…

They had torn into everything.

It was senseless violence. She didn’t keep any records of the Order here. They were in her notes, the golden ones she looped around her fingers in Latin, that transcribed into a notebook she’d shoved into her beaded purse.

Her notes were an extension of her pacing through Muggle London before her meetings. She was so cautious about everything.

And yet she stood in the shattered remnants of her apartment.

What had she done wrong?

“Is any of this yours?”

“No,” Hermione dismissed. “It came with the apartment.”

Malfoy’s face twisted with disgust.

Hermione searched the space around her. She felt strange and exposed to have Malfoy here in his rich black robes and silver hair. He looked taller, though she might have imagined that. She parted her lips to ask a question but resisted.

She didn’t want to know, didn’t care to know.

It took a depressingly short amount of time for her to pack. Even if she’d done it by hand, she had so little in the way of personal possessions. She kept all her books and her clothes in her beaded purse. Any photos of her family or friends remained there too.

The only decorative element she had in her room was three mugs with cute patterns and a print that she’d bought in Muggle London. She looked up at her print with an ache in her chest.

_MUDBLOOD WHORE_

That had been written in a brown, thick paste. A mix of feces and blood and a sticking charm. She raised her wand to clear it away, which took longer than it should. The spell slowly ate away at the edges of it, though she didn’t linger to make sure it vanished. The destruction of the apartment was another issue, one she would fix before she left, but that…

She glanced at the door. Malfoy was there, obscured by the frame. He had his attention on the words, something distinct behind his eyes.

A glint, brief and sharp.

Amusement, she gathered.

Perhaps he was jealous he’d not thought to do that himself while they were at school together.

“Do they often do that?”

“What?” Hermione asked in a flat voice.

Malfoy didn’t clarify further. She continued to pack what few bits and pieces she needed. Her towels, her brush, a pair of slippers. Her room hadn’t been as thoroughly ransacked. Ginny’s room had been untouched from the brief glance she’d seen.

“Ugly, isn’t he.” He glanced across the room to see Crookshanks, who hissed in his direction.

“He isn’t ugly, or fat,” Hermione said as she stripped her bed linens. She’d cleaned them with a flick of her wand and took to folding them with a charm. She was too tired to do it manually, and she refused to ask Malfoy to help her fold sheets. She doubted he’d know how to do it.

Malfoy sneered at Crookshanks, who hissed back.

“Are you going to explain,” she said, no more confident than she looked. Her shoulders were wilted and her chest ached.

He straightened his posture though she refused to look at him any closer than that. He had no right to look cared for and well-fed if he’d been in hiding. Of all the displaced witches and wizards she knew, they were shrunken and bruised, unable to stand still.

Malfoy looked the healthiest she’d ever seen him.

“You ran,” she swallowed hard. “You and your family ran, in the height of the war.”

Malfoy remained silent.

“Why come back?” Her voice crackled around the edges.

“Freedom was dull,” he smirked. “And this half-hearted battle is pathetic to hear about. So I suppose the answer to your question is pity, for you, for your little Order.”

“You’re here to help us?” While the question sounded hopeful in its words alone, her heart sank. 

“I consider it a mercy killing.”

Despite the cool, collected way that Hermione acted about Malfoy, it failed to meet her inner thoughts.

In truth, she was in a panic. 

She’d gotten married to her old Professor out of a magical obligation that he’d manipulated. Her apartment had been torn to shreds and the only reason that she was alive, it seemed, was because of a benevolent bully from her past who’d decided to pop in after years of hiding.

Hermione’s head spun from the shape of it. She fussed with the simple silver ring with the edge of her nail. She had nothing left to pack, nothing to busy herself with.

The process of packing could have been over in seconds. She could have waved her wand and had it all slammed into her beaded purse. But she needed this time to make sure of — 

Of something.

Of his honesty, of his purpose, of why Draco Malfoy had reappeared into her life in such a violent fashion. Her cheeks and mouth still ached from the pressure of his grip.

“You’re working with Snape,” Hermione said, her voice sharp. “But he never thought to tell the Order you were alive.”

Malfoy maintained his attention on her with the same clinical observation one would level at a plant that refused to grow.

Concerned, frustrated, distant.

“Are your parents alive too?” She met his eye, which was her mistake.

Malfoy stalked towards her, his hand wedged into her underarm.

“Am I supposed to take you on your word? That you’re here to help?”

“Whatever you need, you can buy later.”

“Crookshanks — “ She yanked away from him, her eyes fresh with tears. “Let me get Crookshanks, please.”

Malfoy shoved her towards the bed, so she could grab him. The second she’d lofted Crookshanks into her arms, she met Malfoy’s eye.

Silver.

Sharp.

She’d never felt so much like she’d taken a knife to her eyes before, but she’d imagine it felt like staring at Draco Malfoy. It was tense until he slipped past her guard, then it was nothing but pain.

She Disapparated to Snape’s house, her eyes still locked with Malfoy’s.

The sensation of Disapparition forced them shut. She held Crookshanks tighter as he struggled against her, as if eager to escape. And then he was still in her arms, squeezed by the magic, hot then cold.

She thought of the bookshelves, too close for comfort.

The empty fireplace, the stacks of books.

The wet feeling of the air and the smell of musk.

It had been enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the comments!! ;-; Friendly reminder everything is thru Hermione's slant and perspective, so what she sees =/= what is really going on. Certainly she's accounting for this with her best ability, but what she believes and what's she's told is a part of the larger story.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW for self-harm, re: **trying to remove the silver marks. This is a recurring thing for Hermione as a nervous habit will update tags accordingly. (It didn't occur to me that this is something to mention but I'd rather mention it to be safe.)****

**Saturday — August 11th, 2001.**

Hermione had seen Snape’s home for such a short time, she was afraid she’d not be able to Apparate back on her own. But he had said the ring would assist

The ring.

Right.

She was his wife now, wasn’t she?

This was her home now, too.

Crookshanks jumped from her arms. He hated Apparition and hated being smothered. He loved Hermione enough to endure her. If she’d been anyone else, there would be a flurry of blood and torn flesh. Instead he let out a heavy mewl, as if to remind her that she was lucky.

He took to the empty armchair across from her with the confidence of a king. She wished she could mirror his confidence in the dismal shadows of Snape’s lounge. She stared around it, as if to glean information about the man and the house. But nothing stood out, not unless you counted the disarray of his books and the thick layer of dust on most. 

She smoothed her t-shirt and sat on the floor. The term ‘sat’ was generous, as her legs had given out. Her stern posture and strategic mind melted away all at once in the musk of a neglected house. She’d Apparated quite a far distance, it seemed, and on such a small frame of reference. She was surprised she’d not Splinched herself. Her head ached from the effort, so it must have been several hundred miles at least.

Too much, too far, too soon.

She didn’t have a place here, not in the suffocating, neglected books nor in the galley kitchen. If she had a room, she’d not been shown it. She didn’t know where the bathroom was either. She was a guest in this place, but without any of the warmth. So, perhaps _guest_ was the wrong word. She was an intruder. She should have run, she should have taken Ron up on the offer, to marry him and to at least have a familiar place to brood through the arrangement.

Because she was married.

The fact kept slipping from her mind like sand, over and over.

Her hands snapped to her face. She couldn’t help but cry as she had downstairs in the midst of a Potion chamber.

Her apartment, torn to pieces. Not for the first time, either. But she had learned from their mistakes. She used less magic, she never Apparated if she could help it, she never went anywhere new, she didn’t speak to anyone. She had cut her life into such a small square, she had been so careful, she’d done everything right.

And she had still fallen foot-first into the trap, bamboo sharpened to pierce from all angles.

The weight of her morning landed on her shoulders.

The wedding with Snape.

The dead Snatchers.

Natalie.

Malfoy.

Her head ached from where he’d slammed her head and yanked her hair. Her head hurt inside, too, from how she’d Apparated so far, twice over. She dug into her forearm with her nails, to try to pry the silver dots from her skin. But they moved like oil against water, away from her touch. Even when she pierced her skin, they remained. She wanted them out, out of her arm, out of her life.

Crookshanks hissed.

“Are you done?”

Hermione slammed her head back against the bookshelf behind her, so hard that she saw stars. She scrabbled for her wand but the blood on her hand made it impossible to grip.

Malfoy stood in front of her, his head tipped to one side. She’d not heard him Apparate, nor his feet hit the ground.

“I hadn’t expected you to run here of all places,” he said in a cool voice. “Rather expected you to go to Blackwall.”

“Leave me alone.”

“So you can tear your arm apart?” He said, his tone thick with sarcasm. “I’m sure your husband wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“I don’t care,” she snapped back. Snape had been accommodating in their brief window of the arrangement, but he’d manipulated her into his care. It was like giving praise to a judge for giving you a life sentence instead of the death penalty. She looked down at her arm, which was bleeding more than she’d realized. She hadn’t meant to tear the skin, just the spots. But they evaded her nails and her grip.

Her hands were shaking and her chest was too tight. She needed air, she needed space.

“Do you know even how to fix that mess you’ve made,” he said, his wand raised.

“Leave me alone!”

Malfoy’s hand twitched, as his vague amusement turned to anger. “Leave me alone, leave me alone — when did you become so pathetic?” His tone turned from mocking to cruel.

“Shut up,” she snapped, which drew a hiss from Crookshanks. He’d paced over to stand in front of Hermione, his hackles raised.

He twitched his wand to the side once, followed by several short flicks.

Hermione’s arm seared hot and bright as the marks began to heal. She hadn’t stopped crying, and that doubled as the heat burnt through her flesh. The silver made it worse as if they conducted the heat all the way into her bones.

“No wonder the Order hasn’t managed to do anything except die by the dozens. Surprised so many Weasleys are still kicking.”

Hermione’s hand turned to a claw as the muscles seized. Her skin smelled of burnt hair and bacon. She threw up. It wasn’t the cuts or the healing that made her feel ill. It was the dead bodies, the grief, an awful pressure from inside her chest to just tease Malfoy into snapping.

She remained scrunched and terrified, as the sight of her ruined apartment played behind closed eyes.

The dead bodies.

_MUDBLOOD WHORE._

“I had expected you to run, you know.” His tone was bored as he remained in front of her, his wand loosely gestured in her direction. “Thought that know-it-all nature of yours would have found a way around the evaluation.”

Hermione pushed herself into a better position, her face hot and her throat flooded with bile.

“Rather disappointing to see, actually.”

She waved her hand to banish her vomit. She didn’t want to dignify him with a response.

Malfoy’s hand twitched towards where she sat, though it drew back into a fist. “You, submitting to a Death Eater. And Snape of all people.” He examined her with distant attention as if he were waiting for her next move.

“Why are you here?” Hermione croaked through her phlegm-ridden throat.

His answer was stolen from her with a soft pop.

A thin blond witch with a chin that matched Malfoy’s appeared.

Narcissa Malfoy, no different than she’d looked at the mansion when Hermione had last seen her. She had the same dark circles and thinness to her face.

“I was worried where you’d gotten off too,” her body angled towards her son, several slim pretty rings on her fingers. Silver spiders studded her ears. “Are you okay?” She busied herself with his hair and his face, as if in search of damage or decay.

He allowed her to fuss, though his expression soured towards Hermione as an unspoken threat.

Hermione pushed back against the carpet, to further impress herself into the bookshelf.

“No one saw you?” She looked to her son, deep into his eyes. As if she were in search of something. “You need to be careful, always careful.”

“No one saw me,” Malfoy said, which wasn’t true.

He meant that no one alive had seen him, as those three men in her apartment had certainly gotten a view of him as he melted their brains out of their facial orifices.

Malfoy caught his mother’s wrists, to still their slight shake. He drew them back, to thumb the inner side of her forearm. She wore a dress with long sleeves, pinned at the wrists with tiny silver buttons. “The Snatchers made a move on her apartment,” he said with a jerk of his head.

It was then Narcissa noticed Hermione, who had crammed herself between stacks of books. “I’m so sorry — hello Hermione,” her expression was drawn as her eyes widened at Hermione’s bloody arm.

Hermione’s stomach twitched. She couldn’t find words for the woman. 

“Did you not handle the Snatchers quickly enough?” Her voice wavered, her fingers drew through the lengths of her robes. “She’s bleeding.”

“The blood’s her own fault,” he hissed, more like the boy she’d known in school. 

“Help her up,” Narcissa snapped, her tone cold.

Malfoy approached Hermione with his hand extended.

She shoved his hand away and saw herself to her feet, her eyes squinted at the pair.

“Today hasn’t gone as we expected at all. Severus was summoned out by Yaxley. Hogwarts matters,” she spoke as if she were familiar with Hermione. They’d met a handful of times, and the experience had never been pleasant. “We were meant to speak as a group when it was time.”

Hermione sat with confusion bruised across her face.

“He didn’t — no, I suppose not,” Narcissa touched her chin, long nails lacquered silver. “I had hoped he would at least warn you about the kidnapping.”

“I’m sorry, what kidnapping?” Hermione’s voice was flat as schooled her scowl.

“Well yes dear, you’re the one who kidnapped us, or, well, you will be, soon,” Narcissa popped up onto the balls of her feet, a small ‘o’ shape to her lips. “Has she seen her bedroom?”

Malfoy looked miserable, though Hermione wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he’d intended to tease and torture her further.

His mother ruined the ambiance for such a thing.

“She doesn’t know about any of that yet, mother.”

“About having a bedroom?” Narcissa laughed like wind chimes.

“No — the kidnapping.”

Narcissa’s joy faded, though her lips remained pried apart at the corners. Her gaze flicked to Hermione as if to assess her.

Her gaze lingered on her forearm, her left one then her right and her expression fell altogether.

“Let’s start with her room,” Narcissa exhaled a soft breath, her cheeks flushed.

Hermione felt like she must have water in their ears, as they’d said it several times and she hadn’t really heard right.

Something about how she’d kidnapped them, even though she’d not seen them in three years.

She’d remember such a feat.

“I decorated this for you when they finally called you for your evaluation,” Narcissa rolled her shoulder away to go towards the small entrance. “You’ve been clever, though Draco always said you were clever. Almost jealous, though he has sharpened his wits in the time we’ve had abroad.”

Hermione nursed her left forearm as she watched her vanish around the corner. She hadn’t a chance to follow Narcissa as Malfoy yanked her close by her bicep. 

“Tell my mother her decorations are lovely, and that you’re thankful for her effort.” His mouth was angled by her ear, his voice low and too hoarse

It dragged along each vertebra and landed somewhere deep in her stomach.

Hermione yanked herself free of his grip to rush after Narcissa.

There was a staircase that split off upward, and given the small layout of the house, she could only assume the bedroom was upstairs.

She rushed up the stairs as Malfoy was behind her. She expected him to cast a tripping curse on her, or to vanish a step. By the time she reached the top step, she caught sight of three doors. The furthest one was tucked into a corner to her right, while to her left was Narcissa.

Another further door was at the opposite end of the hallway, but it was shrouded in shadows.

Snape’s room.

“I wasn’t sure what colors you like, so I kept it neutral and light, feminine as it were,” Narcissa began her hand in motion. “Yes, I understand your house, all that, but red is so exhausting on your eyes, and gold is so crass,” she reached for Malfoy’s hands as she spoke, pleasantness to her voice that came with etiquette training.

Malfoy held his mother’s hands like they were crystal, cautious not to mark her or hold her too tight.

Hermione didn’t look at him for long, but it was strange to see his tenderness with his mother.

Her gaze lingered on his hands, the same one that had clamped her mouth, the same ones that had killed three men. It seemed cruel that he could tend to his mother with restrained kindness while he throttled her at every opportunity he was permitted.

She rubbed her bicep which still ached from where he’d yanked her.

“ — and as you know, cotton breathes,” Narcissa continued. She cracked the door open, a pleasant smile on her pretty face. She was shaded and drawn, but still pretty.

She’d lost that haughty edge she’d held when Hermione had last seen her, her long blond hair trussed up with pins.

Her robes were simpler, however, but still ornate around the trim. Hermione watched her vanish into the room, to continue her guided tour.

Hermione peered into the room, her eyes felt as though they’d bulged from her skull.

The bedroom was larger than her last one. It had to be expanded, given the house was quite squat and cramped.

This room was cleaner than the rest of the house too, with a charm that must control the temperature. It was temperate compared to the murky outside, with no stained wallpaper or gritty carpet. A pretty double bed with four posts sat at the opposite the door at the far end of the room, perched beneath a swath of ornate curtains. It was too decadent for Hermione, so she skipped her attention elsewhere.

A small seat by the window was set up with books, silver threaded cushions with tassels, a curly silver tea set.

A bay window; she’d always wanted one of those, like the one she’d had at her family home.

Her throat tightened as she stepped inside, her hands knotted and twisted together.

The wall that ran on the inner side of the house was packed with bookshelves and books. To her right was a small alcove with a desk, an ornate chair, and stacks of fresh parchment and beautiful silver quills.

“It’s quite small, I know, but we did extend it or you. You should have seen it when I arrived, it was awful, Severus had thrown a dirty little mattress down, that was all, I was…” Narcissa caught herself, her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. “Do you like it?”

“Of course, it’s beautiful, but,” Hermione turned to look at them both, her expression a mix of confusion and horror. “Why?”

Narcissa’s expression cracked as she looked at Malfoy. In a different life, she’d have been an actress.

Perhaps she still was one now.

“It’s lovely! Really lovely, but…” Hermione worried her t-shirt against her fingers as she tried to clear off the tears and snot.

“You don’t like it, do you,” her eyes swept Hermione’s face. “I knew the curtains were too much.”

“I do like it,” Hermione croaked. “It’s just been a very… I… The last time I saw you both, you were holding me at wand point, you realize.”

The light and breezy tone of the room was lost in a second. All she could feel was the strain of air as it was sucked from the room as if the light had been stolen. Narcissa’s hands shook, bunched by her sides.

Her hands were like little birds turned to porcelain, cracked along the seams.

“I didn’t have a wand trained on you,” Narcissa said, her tone sharp. “Neither did Draco.”

Hermione strained her neck as she looked back at the room.

All white furniture and metal frames.

Zoos were often gorgeous to those who passed by it.

“I appreciate the effort,” Hermione repeated, at a loss for words. She should have done as Malfoy had suggested, to say that the room was lovely and that she appreciated her effort.

But why did she have to be so toothless and complicit in her own abduction?

The act of gracious hostess faded in front of her. Narcissa’s hands shook as she stepped towards Malfoy, her head dropped.

He pulled her close to rest his head on hers, his chin pressed into her ornate pins. Silver and blue, a few flecks of green. The pins were more expensive than everything Hermione owned. She could tell that by sight alone.

It was the sort of thing Malfoy would point out to her, but he didn’t seem willing to speak.

He hadn’t stopped glaring at Hermione.

Narcissa wouldn’t even look at her.

“I do like it,” Hermione repeated, her voice hot.

The Malfoys vanished down the stairs, their voices a mixed whisper.

Hermione let them go. She wasn’t even sure if the vision of them was real, in their pale faces and black clothes. It’d been years since they’d been in her life, and she hadn’t missed them. She wasn’t glad to see them, and she didn’t care to ask what had happened.

And so she was left with herself for the first time since before her marriage ceremony.

Even more alone than that, she realized.

She didn’t even have Ginny anymore.

Hermione sent a Patronus to Ginny at her stadium to say that she was fine and that their apartment was no longer safe. She didn’t know if she wanted to risk a return there, to pick through the rubble for anything she may have left.

The Order would go there, she imagined. They’d clean it up and repair things. They’d done it for other wizarding families.

She wasn’t any different to them, not really.

Snape didn’t return that night.

She hadn’t left her room to check. If he wanted to speak to her, he could come to find her. She refused to walk around his house like a baleful hostage, in search of an escape. She wasn’t trapped here. She could leave at any time.

But she was tired and just…

Empty.

She replayed the day, again and again. Her fingers wove her golden notes, the ones that would imprint on the notebook she kept in her beaded purse.

The strange blood orbs suspended in the Ministry of Magic. The sight of Natalie, dirtied and so like Hermione when she’d been living in tents for a year. Her defiance reflected in a broken girl, one she couldn’t save.

One of the dozens of Muggleborn girls crammed into an arranged marriage, for the might of magic.

She’d joined the ranks of those girls, albeit in the least objectionable way.

The wedding ceremony on repeat, where she agreed to submit herself to Snape. The sight of the Snatchers as they bound towards her, their wands drawn. The conversation they’d had downstairs, where he’d asked her what her true motivation had been in the war.

If she had run, she would have died. If Snape had run, she’d have died slower, in the arms of someone who wanted to watch her soul slip away beneath their grip.

The men these girls were enlisted to were Death Eaters, who saw them less as people and more as obstacles. She had no doubt that these so-called idyllic marriages would devolve. But the papers wouldn’t speak of it. And if they did, they would find a way to spin the truth so as to make it seem like a mercy killing.

She was left in the room, alone, unsure if she’d hallucinated the Malfoys.

She had kidnapped them, they had said.

Yet she was between their fangs.

  
**Sunday — 12th August, 2001.**

Hermione spent the weekend in bed. It was comfortable though she didn’t sleep. She read through the books she had been left on her shelves. She hadn’t the courage to descend into the potions chamber beneath the home, nor had she even gone downstairs except to use the bathroom.

Her room was the sole place in the house that felt cozy. The rest was damaged by cigarette smoke with yellowed walls and peeled carpet. There were stains that looked like old blood, though they could have been potions or… Any number of things. She didn’t even try to clean, she had no interest in it.

She kept away from the kitchen and the study, and even the hallways.

The house remained empty all of Saturday, though she swore she heard the floorboards creak when she had her door closed.

The Order had sent a singular Patronus in the form of Ginny’s palomino horse, which floated through the crack beneath her door.

“The apartment’s been cleared out. I’m with Ron and the twins. Be safe.”

Hermione wished she had received more intelligence, but she didn’t know what she wanted to hear. No one else contacted her, no one asked her how the ceremony had been.

A group had been sent back to Romania to check on another cell of Snatchers that had taken a group of Muggleborn children from a safe house in Hogsmeade.

Four girls and a boy.

There were bigger concerns, it seemed. The Marital Clause was just a footnote and her marriage wasn’t even in the index. By Sunday afternoon she cracked. She pulled out a pair of old jeans and a ratty t-shirt along with her satchel. She hadn’t eaten since Saturday morning and the fridge downstairs was empty.

There had to be a grocery store nearby.

A bakery.

Anything.

Hermione met the cooling summer air with a grubby face and messy hair. She’d showered but the infrequent return to tears made her feel unkempt. She hadn’t had anything explained to her by Snape, she didn’t know what to expect of their marriage.

Her stomach turned over on itself and she forced away the thought.

She waved a hand on the address plaque as a marker. She could Apparate back, but she didn’t know if there were anti-Apparition wards.

She headed northward, though the shape of the neighborhood made it difficult to go any direction really. The streets were choked together with slim alleyways that broke off towards a murky riverbed. The place was unwelcoming and she’d walked for twenty minutes with no bakeries nor cafes.

Not even a grocer.

A small stand with boarded windows sat by the riverbed, but it had rusted chain-linked covers on each of the windows and a poster that advertised a movie that hadn’t been in theaters since the early nineties. Her fingers were cold, as the summer air was eaten up by the miserable architecture and perpetual cloud cover. Some of the clouds were so dark they looked black.

By the time Hermione had reached the very end of the street, she was faced with the massive mill with giant stone turrets. She frowned up at it, at the abandoned structure and the perpetual clouds. A black mist seemed to set around the tallest of the towers, though it could have been the ash that clung to the stonework.

She peered up at it as if it would do something, but that was her boredom at work.

She didn’t want to have to go to London for food. She didn’t even know where she was in relation to her old apartment, or to work.

She didn’t know if that mattered.

She shrugged her satchel higher and beat a trail back towards her —

Back to Snape’s home.

A shiver of black flashed to her right though she turned to see nothing. She doubled her pace, her head bent lower and her jaw clenched. She saw the flash of black again, but she didn’t look. She walked, quicker and more decisive.

What had taken her twenty minutes before had taken her ten now, given she’d been ambling before.

Now, she was running, the bite of cold around her nose and her ears. She was out of shape and out of time, given she couldn’t use magic in such a Muggle-concentrated location. She heard the low, guttural rattle of the Dementors.

The black clouds…

She was so stupid.

When she arrived at Snape’s house, they seemed to have grown tired of their cat-and-mouse game. There were three of them, though more lingered in the clouds above. This was the perfect place for them to feed on Muggles in small, secret bites. Not all at once, for they’d be found out. Instead, they’d drift by windows and run their fingers through the hair of children who were hated by their parents.

They were easy meals for the Dark creatures.

Hermione’s hands shook as she tried to open the door. It occurred to her that she didn’t have keys, nor did she know how to re-open the door. She hadn’t thought to worry about that.

Not until she felt a bony hand clasp onto her shoulder, to twist her gently.

She pulled against it but not hard enough.

She was already a prisoner.

She felt dead.

[“What the hell is this,” Ron’s voice bellowed over the screams.

The smoke, the backfired spells. Hermione stared at the aftermath, where Harry had been standing moments ago.

Now all that remained were his shoes and several pieces of his clothes. Blood. So much blood. It was everywhere, spread across the courtyard, entrails wrapped around pieces of stone, ribs lodged into the side of the giant.

The tears, the screams, Ginny’s face, empty, everyone crushed, broken.

The Boy Who Lived, dead.]

The door clicked open and Hermione fell forward into Snape’s house.

Her teeth chattered around her Patronus, a spell she’d cast with ease the day before. Why hadn’t she been able to call upon it now?

Snape stood over her, his face pale. More pale than usual, with a tension in his shoulders and a scowl on his face.

“I would ask that you not dawdle around the neighborhood,” Snape said as he walked away, his hands framed behind his back.

“I was… Hungry,” Hermione’s teeth snapped together against her will, her fingers crisped and cold.

“You’re a witch, aren’t you.” He shot a look at her from the armchair which he’d taken a seat in. “Summon food.”

“I don’t like to summon meals I haven’t prepared,” Hermione pushed herself up with shaky hands and elbows, her body seized from the proximity of the Dementors. “Are they always out there?”

Snape didn’t answer. Instead, he’d cracked open a book.

“Where have you been?” Her tone was unkind, as she couldn’t handle softness with how cold she felt.

No response.

Hermione searched the floor as if there were an answer to be found there. Instead, she locked eyes with the spot she’d been crouched in the day before. The spot she’d been in when Malfoy and his mother had appeared.

“Why did you really select me.”

Snape continued to read, unmoved by her.

She stalked to her pretty cage, her shoulders squared and her head down.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW:** Dark Chapter ahead, mild dub-con mention. Lots of personal headcanon too re: the Black sisters.

**Monday — 13th August, 2001.**

Hermione’s marriage to Snape was on the front page of the Daily Prophet.

Except, it wasn’t their marriage, not as she remembered it.

The photo was of her in an ornate white dress. It looked like it cost more than her annual salary for the material alone. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her hair was bundled up. She looked curvier as if her breasts had been accentuated. Makeup skimmed across her face in subtle flashes. She blushed in the black and white print, her eyes speckled with tears.

But that wasn’t real; that wasn’t her.

Snape was even worse. He had his hair tied back with a ribbon (a ribbon!) which made her gag. He had a set of dress robes and a smile. The whole picture made her skin crawl like their faces had been stolen and slapped onto corpses. She watched her heaving chest in the photo as tears rolled down her cheeks, and how happy she looked, how impossibly happy she remained.

_The marriage between Hermione Jean Granger and Severus Snape is one written in the stars. A fairytale that any young schoolgirl could look to with great jealousy, to know that they may one day capture the love and devotion of their pet crush. Snape, a well-respected Potions Master, and eligible bachelor has finally tied the knot as part of the Marital Clause program and he and his bride couldn’t be more excited._

_“She completes me,” Snape said, a finger crooked around the edge of his lips. A telltale smile from the secretive raven-haired man suggests that there is more to their arrangement than pure intellectual compatibility. The chemistry between them is palpable._

_“When I found out the love of my life was someone who guided me through my years of school, I was ecstatic,” Hermione said. “The idea that someone who saw me grow up could see me through the rest of my journey is a dream come true. I’m excited to see what else he can teach me,” she added with the ghost of a minx on her lips._

Hermione screamed so loudly that Penelope came to check on her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?” Penelope said, her voice tense. “I… I hadn’t even realized you were close with Snape.”

“Close!” Hermione’s eyes felt like they’d roll out of her head, as real tears crashed down her face. “Oh, I’m just so in love with him, of course,” Hermione spat, thick with sarcasm.

Penelope gave her a strange look, a mixture of disgust and confusion, as she closed the door behind her.

Hermione bracketed her hands against her head as she stared down the photo. The arches were a set at Hogwarts. They’d framed their marriage as some schoolgirl delight when that made it a thousand times worse. She had no interest in Snape, to begin with, but to see her little face doe-eyed and blushing at the man-made her want to kill him.

But it wasn’t his fault.

Perhaps the photos were fake. The Daily Prophet seemed hellbent on the projection of marital bliss on behalf of the Ministry. Magic was a wondrous thing, it could have been used to tear her apart. Perhaps they had gone to take the photos and he'd blanked her memory, to spare her the trauma. She would thank him if that was the case and then stage a murder. She could stand to be a woeful widow -- until she was sent to Azkaban for meddling in the Marital Clause.

Somehow, this linked back to Malfoy.

It had to.

Snape hadn’t explained the Malfoys to her yet. She wasn’t even sure they were real, either. She didn’t want to speak about them, as they were missing. If she even breathed their names, she feared Bellatrix would turn up with knives and battalions. 

Her day progressed, much as a normal day would for her. That made it worse somehow as if she had imagined both the Malfoy family and the article about her schoolgirl crush. She threw herself into the thick of her manuscript stacks, reading until the words blended into sludge in her mind. She picked apart manuscripts and she debated their merits.

She sent two owls with offers for an advance and a contract.

That was a successful day, and not one she often had.

Come to think of it, she didn't know if she was meant to be at work. Snape hadn’t stopped her when she’d said she was going. She’d called into his bedroom through the closed door, which she’d not yet seen inside. She hoped she’d never had to be in there, and that he never had a reason to go into her room.

No one would guess by sight alone that she had been married over the weekend. She moved the same, spoke the same, and she lacked the bridal stress and the honeymoon phase. She wasn't married, and now she was, all in the span of a weekend.

That seemed wrong, didn't it?

Hermione fidgeted with her silver ring, the one that glinted with silver wisps. The threads continued to form and fade in a spiderweb of sigils. None that she’d been able to decipher yet, but that was her next point of interest. There could be a clause within it or some way to disengage the bond.

No one had contacted her to congratulate her or to check in on her, but she suspected they were busy with Ginny. She would see them Friday when the Order met, and she could tell them about the bonding ceremony and the Snatchers in the Ministry. She might even elude to an intervention on behalf of Natalie, who looked like she might not survive with Flint for much longer. She would talk about anything that wasn't herself or Snape.

Still, no letters --

Whatever.

She didn’t tell people where she worked and she imagined that Snape had made his home Unplottable. Owls wouldn’t know she lived there, either.

Maybe there was a bunch of well-wishes that had crammed up in the post office, and all she’d need to do was to go check. There would be scrolls upon scrolls of outraged Muggleborns and disgusted classmates, who’d all demand she is freed of the marriage. They would take to the streets and put up signs, petitions, any number of objections on her behalf. And she would cry and rally alongside them and it'd be a step in the right direction.

A revolution in her honor.

There were no owls waiting for her at the post office.

She checked during lunch. One owl had returned after an unsuccessful delivery, but it had been a mislabeled package.

“Is that all Ms. Snape?”

“No,” she swatted her hands through the air. “No, that’s all.”

_Mrs. Snape._

_Mrs. Hermione Snape._

She repeated the name to herself. It sounded like a terminal illness to her ears, and one she hoped she’d soon die of.

By the time she finished her shift, she rushed for the Apparation point. She remained unremarkable in the crowd and kept her head low. The only time she ever got recognized was when she was with Ron, as their combination of height and hair reminded people of their fractured Trio.

It reminded them of that miserable Harry-shaped hole.

(As if she needed to be reminded.)

She Apparated without thought and landed in her apartment, the one in London.

She slapped her hands to her face and willed herself not to scream. She took several deep breaths. In her haste to get home, she'd forgotten she no longer had a home. She had Snape's house on Spinner's End. Her hands slid from her face as she looked around as if she expected the place to still be in pieces.

Except that it wasn't.

Everything was clean, fixed up, with a note left on the table. She stared in confusion and started forward, excited.

Someone must have left it for her!

Fred perhaps, or Ron. She would have preferred Fred as he tended to annoy her in clever ways. Ron just annoyed her, period.

_Dear Mrs. Twist,_

_We’ve had to leave, thank you for your patience. We’ve cleaned the apartment to the best of our ability. Here’s the rest of our rent until the end of our lease. We included an additional fifty percent, as an apology for the short notice._

_Kind regards,_

_Millicent and Mable_

Hermione snorted, though she caught the sound before it broke too loud. She took her time to peek around the apartment, but everything was immaculate. Cleaned, clear and spotless. Even better than when they’d moved in, she realized in a distant way. They could have done this themselves, they could have cleaned it and fixed it up, but their magic was stronger than any Muggle supplies. If they left a place too good, it'd raise questions. So they maintained the shabby decor and stained fixtures. Whoever had cleaned the place hadn't bothered with secrecy, hadn't thought to care.

Wait.

Rent and a half… 

Hermione cracked the envelope open to find twelve thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes.

Her hands shook from the weight of it.

Had the Weasleys’ pooled their money together for this? She’d have to pay them back. If she was working and staying at Snape’s, she had no need to pay rent. Not unless Snape felt especially sadistic.

She did the math backward in her head, to find that she’d need around three thousand Galleons to pay them back. Add around fifty for the bits and pieces, for the effort they’d put in.

By rights, her share was half of that, but Ginny had paid twice as much rent for as long as they’d lived together. People refused to hire Hermione, save for Penelope who severely undercut her because it wasn’t as if she could complain to anyone. She hadn't known at first, hadn't thought to ask. But Mandy made twice what Hermione made per week and did none of the additional tasks. Hermione was owed royalties and commission, but she didn't receive either.

She was paid cash in hand, and all the manuscripts were signed as Penelope.

If she factored minor spending into her budget, she could pay the Weasleys back within the year.

Her hands shook as she tucked the notes back into the envelope and sealed it. She left it on the table where it’d lain. She walked around the apartment one last time, a strange pang of nostalgia. She hated this apartment for how cramped it had felt, but she had no more space at Snape's. It was her fourth house in the year, too, and she was so tired of moving. She was tired in general, tired of the chase, tired of the questions, tired of stressful sleep -- it was warm here, too warm, but she’d take the warmth over the murky cool that lingered in Snape’s home.

She didn’t know how long she sat on her bed, but it had to have been hours. The Death Eaters knew she was here, as did the Snatchers.

Perhaps not right this second, but they’d known.

_“I’m excited to see what else he can teach me.”_

Hermione laid across her bed, her arms laid out above her as she examined the ceiling.

She breathed, in, out…

It was so warm in here.

Too warm.

It was dark when she woke up.

She opened her eyes slowly at first, lazily. At first, she wasn’t aware of anything being wrong. She’d lived here since May, so it was familiar. Except it shouldn’t be.

Her eyes squinted through the dark, at the empty quiet apartment.

Hermione pushed herself up.

The Death Eaters knew she lived here. As did the Snatchers.

She thought of Snape’s house, bleary and a half-asleep still.

Her mind played tricks on her as if she could hear the floorboards creak and eyes land on her.

When she opened her eyes again, she outside of Snape’s house, laid across the pavement. She hadn't landed quite right from her Apparation, half-on the step. She'd stumbled, warm and dizzy from her apartment's insulated nature. Spinner's End was none of that, not with the black shapes that swirled above in the evening air.

It was cold here.

So cold.

Hermione pushed herself up with shaking hands, her chest tight and her throat dry.

She scrabbled towards her warded plaque, the one she’d enchanted so she could use it as her bearings in this identical village. There was no rattle of Dementors that night, but their presence lingered in the shake of her hands and the darkness in the sky.

Her wand hand shook as it unlocked Snape’s front door and she slipped inside.

She sat in the entryway, terrified.

She hadn’t slept properly in days. Weeks, perhaps.

Snape washed into the lounge like ink down the drain. By the time she was on her feet, he’d vanished from the lounge, but the cabinet didn't sound. Nor did the back door. She wondered if he had been a Dementor formed into a man, or a man on his way to such a place. He always washed and waned in dark colors, misery his tightest cloak.

She didn’t see him again that evening.

**Tuesday — 14th August, 2001.**

The next morning breakfast appeared for her by her bedside. She had warded the door, so she wasn’t sure how it had arrived. But it was laid out on a silver serving tray, arranged with several flowers. A serving of oatmeal and several pieces of fruit sat crisscrossed and bright. Tiny quiches had been laid out like daisies, sprawled and trimmed into yellow shapes.

Hermione tested them with a flick of her wand, but they seemed innocuous.

She didn’t touch any of it, no matter how her stomach rumbled.

An ornate stainless steel lunch box glinted on her desk. Inside was a creamy soup with chicken and vegetables. Several fine chocolates in little paper slips sat next to them. The whole box seemed to be enchanted to accommodate each meal, the contrast in temperatures be impossible for a Muggle lunchbox.

She left that, too.

Hermione arrived at Spinner’s End after work, her head hung low and her shoulders tight. 

A note appeared pinned to her door, one that said there was a roast that would be delivered to the kitchen at seven o’clock, so to be ready for it.

She went to bed without checking the kitchen.

Tuesday morning, breakfast appeared. It was a huge bowl of yogurt with berries and a chocolate croissant. Scrambled eggs sat next to that, as well as a bowl of fruit. It was enough food for four people. The lunch box held a giant club sandwich, three kinds of soup and a salad that looked like a sprawl of mixed greens and vinaigrette. Small croutons peppered it. On the side were more chocolates and a box of strawberries.

Hermione picked up an apple and took the lunch box. She gave both to Penelope, who raved about how good it had been.

She would have felt bad about it, but she’d been confident they weren’t poison.

But if they were…

She could have saved Penelope if she felt like it.

She arrived home to a note about dinner, which would arrive at seven o’clock. Hermione waited in the kitchen this time, her arms crossed as a plate arrived with vegetables in a creamy sauce, a side soup. Roast pheasant… Other bits and pieces. As if someone had sent four meals instead of one.

She dug into a muffin she had bought at a convenience store just outside the Leaky Cauldron.

She realized she’d not eaten anything except that muffin since Monday.

By Wednesday morning, a large, scrawled note arrived with instructions on how to use a knife and fork. Additional instructions, of how to open and close one’s mouth, to eat.

Hermione caved, for it smelled so sweet and so decadent. She dug into the oatmeal and cracked her hard-boiled egg. She devoured them and packed the lunch box away without a thought.

A three-page feature about her wedding with Snape appeared in the Daily Prophet, complete with more photos of her, blushing and bride-like. She hadn’t been there for those photos. She didn’t remember any of it.

She bought a bottle of cheap red wine in London and ate that night’s roast with it, a bottle vanished in a night. She had cried most of the night in her room, not over anything specific. She hardly needed a reason to cry, she just needed to do it. She had crawled into bed at nine o’clock and slept until five minutes to nine.

She found a pepper-up potion beside her breakfast that morning, along with her breakfast and lunch. And a note, that said if she wanted to drink wine, to ask for something better than cheap Muggle swill.

She gave Penelope the lunch as an apology for her lateness.

Thursday night’s meal arrived a little later than seven, but Hermione didn’t mind. She used her time to clean the kitchen, which was caked in a thin layer of cigarette smoke.

A clatter of silverware signaled its arrival, with smoked trout, watercress & beetroot salad. A glass of chardonnay sat beside that.

_“Moderation.”_

Her cheeks flushed red. She shot a nasty look around the kitchen as she dug into the pantry and cupboards, to find a bottle of red wine that looked older than Nicholas Flammel. She downed the chardonnay and snatched up the meal, though she didn’t end up touching the red wine. She just took it to prove that she could, and instead turned to a book on Egyptian tombs.

She didn’t want to make a habit of drinking each night. Especially not angry, or out of spite.

**Friday — 17th August, 2001.**

Hermione was convinced the Malfoys had been a psychotic break on her part. Snape hadn’t mentioned them to her. Then again, he’d not spoken to her at all since Monday. He’d speak in simple words, certainly, but it was nothing compared to the confession offered in the bowels of his private laboratory.

She was left with free reign of the house and no expectations. Not unless you counted the routine meals, which she accepted out of a sense of frugality.

She felt like his roommate rather than his wife.

She was fine with that.

There had been a three-page spread of their marriage on Wednesday night. The photos were all faked, much to her chagrin.

She didn’t understand how they’d managed it, they looked so realistic. Not unless Snape had blanked her memory and carted her around like a mannequin. She looked so elegant and practiced, like the perfect bride. She had slim rings around her fingers and ornate pins in her hair.

She dismissed the thought as she ate her salad. She hadn’t the stomach for baked goods as she'd survived off them for several days and her teeth ached from the sugar. She’d felt ill since St. Mungo's, as if she had a fever that wouldn't break. That sickness welled up inside her as she realized her meeting with the Order was slated for that night. She’d have to tell them about Draco and Narcissa, if only because it meant that another Death Eater had resurfaced.

But she had no idea how to quantify them, as foes or — friends?

They hadn't done anything friendly yet.

Hermione’s stomach lurched for the third time that day.

And she decided it was a Friday night, and she wasn't well. She could work from home, it wasn't as if her work was exclusive to Obscurus Books. She packed away her wand and her water, as well as the ornate lunch box which she'd gotten so used to since Wednesday. She doubted it was the food that had made her ill. It was the silver in her forearm, she was sure of it.

Hermione paused by Penelope's office on the way out, a weak knock given to the doorframe.

"Hermione?" Penelope said in a distant voice.

“I’m taking these manuscripts home,” Hermione gestured with three manuscripts, her face pale. “I don’t feel well.”

“Oh, of course,” Penelope smiled. She slid across Hermione’s seventy Galleons, and for the first time in a long while, things felt like they might be okay.

"Thank you -- and have a good weekend," she said with a wan smile.

"Mh, you too, rest up," Penelope smiled before she pivoted back to parchment she'd been reading.

She tucked the manuscripts into her bag and headed towards the Apparition point. She never took days off, never cared to, but she was owed days of sick leave. The fact she’d come in for most of the day while unwell wasn’t uncommon.

But her leaving early?

She was just tired.

Tired, sick, overwhelmed.

She felt like she was going through N.E.W.T.s preparation all over again, given the heavy pile of books in her bag and the frantic pace of her mind.

Hermione arrived back in Snape’s study. She no longer popped on arrival, as she was so used to the trip. The study was familiar to her, as it was her focus point for Apparition. The ring helped, she believed. Snape had told her she needn’t use her wand to Apparate here, that the ring acted as a conduit, but it was still a habit.

She took a moment to stand, still and silent. She felt unwell, as she had since the evaluation. She felt like she’d been suffering a mild fever since then, always hot, always uncomfortable. Something was missing and she couldn’t quite pick what it was. There were stacks of books on purification rituals as well as Necromancy, which she had noted for later. It was a forbidden subject, but even the darkest magics had its lessons. She turned towards the stairs, but not before she paused at the sound of —

She paused. Slow and cautious, she looked around, her breath caught in her throat.

Her own voice.

Hermione twitched.

It was coming from the kitchen; rather, she was speaking in the kitchen.

“ — it hurt.”

“This doesn’t fall on you,” Malfoy said, his voice soft. “You shouldn’t have this on your shoulders.”

“I chose this, Draco.”

“You didn’t,” he snapped back, but not as angry as Hermione had heard him in the past. She crept closer, cautious steps on the outsides of her feet. Hermione peeked, to see _herself_ in front of Malfoy, tears down her face and bloodshot eyes. Her wild, wide brown hair, all the veins blown in her eyes, blood around the corner of her mouth. She stared as if she couldn't have seen this, as if she'd made a mistake.

“This isn’t for debate,” not-Hermione’s voice strained around the corner. “You should have stayed with your father until this was done.”

"And leave you alone?"

"It's better to be alone in these times," her hands were shaking. Her eyes were brown, familiar like a mirror, unreal without the frame.

Whoever they were, they were wearing Hermione’s face.

Malfoy had his hand beneath not-Hermione’s chin, his thumb and index finger bracketed against the shape of it. As if he were searching her eyes for something. But he shoved her away in a moment, a snarl from between his thin lips.

"Oh -- Draco," not-Hermione said, her voice watery.

Hermione stared at herself, eyes locked, a wand, a spell — it was dark.

Always dark.

Always cold.

Carpet, in her cheek, the corner of her eye. She spat out the fluff and dirt from her lips, her nose wrinkled in disgust. The study was so dirty. The floor worst of all. She had spent more time here than anywhere else it seemed. It was dark, darker than it had been, she hadn't the time. Her watch said it was seven o'clock but it had to be later, it felt like it was midnight.

Hermione shoved herself to her knees, her hands framed by her shoulders. She pushed herself up, her arms shook and her teeth grit. She had fallen back into the lounge as she’d tried to run.

“Why were you in the kitchen,” Snape spoke, his voice smooth in the sharp pain of her head.

“I was feeling sick — ” Hermione began, her voice shaky.

She looked up at Snape, who stood beside Narcissa at the small window that faced out into an alleyway. No light came through there in the afternoon, so it was dark in the room save for a fading lamp.

“Not you,” Snape waved a hand to shut Hermione up.

“She needed her clothes,” Malfoy said, his voice tense. “She liked her robes, she didn’t want them to be left to rot.”

"Clothes." Snape's bemusement rang true in Hermione's chest.

Narcissa fidgeted with her hair, which was still brown and curled at the ends. Her features sharpened, if Hermione stared. But she slid between Hermione and Narcissa, towards the latter as the seconds past. 

Hermione’s mind snapped into place as she stood. A glimmer of silver caught her eye as Malfoy moved in the shadows. He leaned against the archway that led into the hallway, his ankles and arms crossed.

He didn’t move, not even as she walked to him.

To shove him, hard in the chest.

"Finally she's awake," Malfoy's bored voice rang out.

“You -- took -- my -- hair!” She shoved him with each word, as hard as she could. Her apartment, when Malfoy had grabbed her by the back of the head. He’d pulled so tight… She should have realized. She didn't stop shoving him, not even when he stood unaffected. He was taller than her with a sturdier stance. She would claw his face, was she not on the verge of throwing up.

“We shall discuss this later,” Snape said as if that were the end of the discussion. “For now — “

“No! No, we will discuss this right now,” Hermione spat as she pivoted, to round on him next. As she had with Malfoy, she rushed over to close the gap. He was half a foot taller than her, and stared down his hooked nose at her as if she were a parasite he’d pulled from a rat.

Snape raised a brow at her as if to invite her to speak.

“The Prophet — the photos. The — all of that!” Hermione spat, her hands frantic in the air around her as she gestured.

He didn’t move either, so she took it upon herself to shove him. She was furious.

Unlike Malfoy, who endured the shoves, Snape had anticipated her aggression. He caught her wrists before she could draw back, his gaze sharp as he looked into her eyes. Her chest flourished in warmth, deeper than she liked. The longer his grip remained, the worse the feeling was. It was like her fever had doubled, and all she wanted to do was curl into his chest. She wanted him to pull her close, to stroke her hair and tell her it would be okay, for him to kiss her forehead and --

Love potion.

Fucking love potion.

She felt ill in a new way.

He caught the heat behind her eyes and adjusted his grip. He touched her through her sweater rather than her skin. At least she could glare at him now without the shadows to her vision and the heat in her stomach.

“You should be thanking her.” Snape didn't break eye contact, not as he glared down at Hermione.

Narcissa shrank into the window sill, her head dropped.

“Oh, yes, thank you for making me look like an idiot on the front of the Daily Prophet!” Hermione tried to pull herself free of Snape’s grasp, and he let her go. Her fever remained, thick around her head and her chest. She wanted nothing more than to rush back to him, to stroke his hair and cuddle, and more, and she wanted to kill him right then and there for it. But it wasn't his fault.

(She was sure it wasn't his fault.)

"You still haven't explained why you forced me into your loving embrace," she spat with such venom she surprised even herself. Hermione searched Snape’s face for an answer, the one he’d withheld. Instead, he glared at her as if she’d asked a stupid question, which hurt more than words ever could. "Just tell me, or else I'll go outside right now and get a Dementor to kiss me," her shoulders scrunched beside her ears.

“We needed your position in the Order and at the mansion that night,” Malfoy said, his voice ragged around the edges. “You marrying Snape helped that along. Rather fortunate, actually.”

“Fortunate — I’m glad my situation is fortunate for you,“ Hermione wriggled free of Snape’s grip. He watched her stumble.

She squinted at Snape and Malfoy in equal measure, as if she could pry the answer from them by sight alone.

The three of them exchanged long, withdrawn looks.

“I deserve to know, in clear terms,” Hermione said, her voice heavy with her demand. “Why should I thank you.” Her mind went back to the article, the photos of her looking like a perfect bride.

The room remained quiet as Narcissa curled further into herself. She nursed her hummingbird hands, which shook around an invisible shape. They couldn't quite close nor stay still. Her eyes were no longer bloodshot at least but the blood at the corner of her mouth remained.

Severus remained unmoved. If she weren’t forced into his space, he’d have walked out.

“Have you wondered about the constellations, Granger,” Malfoy said from his spot against the wall.

“Snape said they were linked to your Dark Marks, and then forced upon Muggleborns — ”

“The origin has nothing to do with Muggleborns, not specifically," Malfoy said, his voice strict.

Hermione turned towards him as if she might strike him if he didn't continue.

"Each Death Eater has a constellation based on the night they were inducted. The Dark Lord was particular about it, ceremonial — he assigned them himself, based on birthdays and families,” Malfoy sniffed at the air. “We were in France, my father and I felt the pain of it and… They appeared. They found us.”

Hermione’s brow dropped and crossed her arms.

“You asked why we’d come back willingly — we haven’t.” Malfoy licked his lips apart. “But with a little ingenuity, we can make our return mean something.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, her eyes fixed to Malfoy. “And how does that involve using my likeness — ”

“Bellatrix has been on the hunt for the Malfoy family since February when the marks were first used to locate Death Eaters who'd tried to run. Hence the Death Eaters traveling across to France. She considered the Malfoys to be traitors,” Snape spoke in a level voice. She wanted to shake him, to make him speak with something more than clinical apprehension. “I told her that I believed the Malfoy family was secreted away by the Order during the war, but that I didn’t know more than that.”

“And she believed you?” Hermione’s jaw rolled on the spot as she remained menacing beneath Snape’s gaze as if proximity promised truth.

“Not at first. But given our recent marriage, I’ve convinced her that through extensive torture I was able to find them in your mind.” Snape stepped around her like she were a lace curtain, no hesitation. He moved to examine the fireplace, his back to the room.

“So, because of our marriage, you brought Narcissa and Malfoy here, to slip back into the ranks of the Death Eaters,” Hermione scrunched her features.

“With the provision that Bellatrix let you live, should the memories be sufficient. She sees the use in you alive rather than dead,” Snape added. “You’re to be used, to pull Order intel from you at her discretion. It’s pure luck that you evaded the evaluation since February; you were their priority in the program.”

“And you had to leave your father in France?” Hermione’s chest felt tight. She massaged her ribs with rough touches, her fingers burrowed into the knots. 

“Father couldn’t resist being located through the Mark — he’s sedated until we're to rescued,” Malfoy didn’t hesitate, which surprised her. “Given the distance between what remains of Voldemort and myself, I’m able to occlude myself from their search,” Malfoy pushed off the desk to approach her, his head angled downward given their height difference.

Snape had mentioned Occlumency affected the Dark Marks. Hermione didn't know enough about them yet, but she made a mental note to learn the specifics of the ritual.

“So you had Narcissa dress up as me, and be tortured for false information by her sister,” Hermione scrunched closer to herself, her arms crossed over the ache in her chest.

“Bellatrix wanted to see for proof herself. She doesn’t believe Snape easily, doesn’t trust him.”

“You should have let me tell Bellatrix myself — “

"Tell!" Narcissa laughed, high and cruel.

Hermione turned to her. She’d not spoken yet.

“Do you know what it’s like to be subjected to the Cruciatus curse, Hermione,” Narcissa said, her voice empty. “One time I bit clean through my tongue. I choked on my own blood. The Dark Lord laughed. Bellatrix too. My own sister,” she smiled with brilliant light behind miserable eyes.

Snape and Malfoy looked to Narcissa and the three of them watched as she shook in quiet indignation.

“It was what we’d planned, all depending on when you were caught for evaluation,” Narcissa’s lips twitched. “Snape had clear instructions to control the outcome of your mark, to bond — to then switch, to bring you to the wedding venue, to make a public spectacle of your marriage. Then, you'd be tortured for fun by the Death Eaters. An initiation, a purification, they call it different things, but it's just torture for the sake of it."

"They tortured you?"

"Same as the other girls.” Her teeth clicked together as her jaw locked.

Hermione’s heart pattered in her chest. Malfoy looked ready to Apparate, to go tear the Death Eaters apart himself.

“I’ve been called upon several times now this week,” Narcissa said in an empty voice. “To confirm the consummation of your marriage and to see if it was true — that the Order had hidden the Malfoy family away,” her lips quirked as if it were novel that she spoke about her family in the third person.

“And you… Lied?” Hermione hoped that she lied. She didn't want to imagine Narcissa and Snape consummating the marriage on her behalf. That was too much to take on, even if it wasn’t really for Hermione at all. She had a husband and a family. If she had to do such a thing, then she would do it herself. She wouldn't want Narcissa to throw herself into the mix on repeat.

She couldn't stand the thought.

Narcissa’s lips warped around unspoken words. She began to cry, but it was private and soft. Not the sort of sobs that Hermione leaned into. 

“The three daughters of Black are unique,” Malfoy shot his mother a half-smile, but it was too sad to meet his eyes. “My aunt Bellatrix can wield Legilimency like a sword; natural, sharp, able to get almost through any defense. It made my training in Occlumency encompassing.”

“She has a natural talent for Legilimency?” Hermione breathed, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

“We all do, in our own way. Andromeda used it like a cloak, able to lie and to convince people of truths with her words,” Narcissa added with a wet scoff. “It was only words, after all. Her mind was weak. No conviction. Once you broke into her mind, you saw the truth.”

The room sat in silence as Hermione examined the woman, who looked so small despite her long neck and slender arms.

“I can create memories much like one can after being Obliviated," Narcissa’s voice shook. “So yes, I can lie — and I can obscure them… Entirely defensive, very… Very useful,” Her hands shook. “I took enough from Snape’s memories of you, and of Draco’s… I…” She brushed at her face, where tears laid. “Even through torture, I can maintain my memories like they’re truth. I can make it seem like I'm giving up things against my will. It was quite useful around the Dark Lord -- he loved to pick my brain, like a toy. He thought I might snap one day.” The corners of her lips twitched.

“That’s awful,” Hermione failed to keep her voice level, as she snapped a hand to her mouth.

“And you think you could have walked up to Bellatrix, to whisper a secret and have her believe you,” Narcissa snorted through a snotty nose.

“Why put yourself through this?” Hermione breathed, her voice soft.

“Because if my sister found us in France of our own volition, she’d have executed us.” Her voice was empty as she said this as if she'd practiced it.

“Snape has been trusted less and less,” Malfoy looked to Snape, who looked no different at the mention of his intel being weak. “If I were to return, the prodigal son who escaped the Order’s capture, your precious Order will have a new avenue of intel. Not that they have any idea what to do with information except stare at it and gawk with open mouths.”

Hermione wanted to argue with him, in that he’d brought his mother back to the war. They were safe. If he’d been smarter, she’d not be here.

“Narcissa assisted with intel through the years,” Snape added, solemn. His gaze was fixed to Hermione’s temple. “She was around for meetings I hadn’t been privy too. Her leads were numerous, though she never wanted to be credited. She still doesn’t wish to be credited,” he added with a tilt of his head.

Narcissa kept her head bowed.

“You betrayed Voldemort?” Hermione stared at the woman, her teeth set in a hard line.

“It was after…” Narcissa dropped her chin to her chest. “After Lucius was locked up, after the Ministry. I thought if I helped Severus, he may be able to control the information the Order has or to notify me, so I could make sure the same thing didn’t happen to Draco.”

Malfoy shifted, uncomfortable as Hermione had ever seen him. His left arm was tucked into the crook of his elbow, his posture tight.

“What happens now?” Hermione asked, unsure if she had a place in any of this.

“Nothing for you,” Snape said, his voice idle. “Except that you remain quiet, and keep to the house as much as possible.”

Hermione sat on the armchair, her gaze fixed to her hands. She picked at her nails, unsure what to say.

“You cannot tell the Order any of this,” Snape said, his voice quiet. She felt his skin bubble with his words like hot water ran through her veins. “If any of them are taken for questioning, it would unravel everything.”

Snape’s expression folded inward as he looked to Narcissa.

She stood, her hands shaking as she approached Hermione. “I need to fill in some gaps for you,” she whispered. “If I may?”

Hermione frowned at the woman, who was several inches taller than her. She gave a singular nod before Narcissa took her cheeks into her hands, to lift her gaze so they met.

And then the pain.

Immediate, all-encompassing. Hermione felt her eyes roll into the back of her head as she saw snapshots of the Malfoys in the rubble, a spell cast, their eyes glossy, they vanished, to France, she knew they were in France, then there was a skip, to her wedding, Snape dressed and smiling, just for the photo, then his expression fell. They walked into a deep, deep chamber, all stone, white dress covered in piss and blood, pain, pain, pain, a confession, that the Malfoys were in France, they were being held, pain, pain, pain.

The whip-crack image of Snape above her, inside her, and she would have thrown up if it’d been more than a flash.

Pain.

More pain.

Cruciatus Curse.

Another pain.

And then it stopped, like a nightmare lifted. She was on her knees, her face still in Narcissa’s hands. The older woman looked wearier.

“You didn’t — “ She glared at Snape across Narcissa's shoulder, her eyes full of tears.

"No, no, it isn't real," Narcissa’s pretty features crimped. “The pain is all real, but the rest…” she shot a long look up at Snape, who was shaking. She rested her forehead against Hermione's for a second, brief and light, and Hermione might have cried. When she withdrew, Narcissa gave Hermione a wan smile. "I have been hurt in many ways, Hermione, I hope you may never have to."

The woman was a slip of her past, a shadowed, broken piece of the woman at the Malfoy Manor. She had been worn down by the war, no edges, all curves, and softness. Hermione touched her hands as they left her cheeks as if she might still them for her. She never thought she'd feel anything for the woman, pale colors, pale hair, pale eyes, but she wanted to tear all those memories from her. Hermione didn't want her to suffer on her account, she was able to endure.

But it wasn't safe.

“So if anyone asks, if you need to know — you know...” Narcissa smoothed Hermione's hair from her face, the brown lock out of place in her pale white hands. She got up with Malfoy’s assistance, while Hermione was left to shove herself back to her feet.

Hermione couldn’t meet Snape’s eye. He stood, a black square shape, his face turned away. He had seen it, their scars lined up, Mudblood against Dark Mark as they heaved. She didn't know who ached more from the misery of that vision, her or him. At least he had the decency to look upset about it. But she couldn't meet his eye, not now. Not with the vision of him above her --

Ugh.

She didn’t know how she’d survive their meeting with the Order.


	11. Chapter 11

**Friday — 17th August, 2001.**

Ron wouldn’t look her in the eye.

Fine. Perfect. 

Actually, no, Hermione refused to look at him. She kept her gaze trained on the steam from her mug of tea. That was far more scalding and bitter than Ron but not by much. But at least it couldn't puff and pout like a scorned boy who'd asked her to Yule Ball. And yet he couldn't stop staring at her hand, at her ring, at her little string of runes that linked to her stars.

Hermione shifted her sleeve, her gaze swirled with the steam. She had taken a seat next to Snape rather than Ginny. She didn't know why. It just seemed like the thing to do. He was her husband, and she felt a little less ill when she was close to him. Her gaze slid from the steam to the table behind it. She memorized the knots in the wood, the slurs etched from the patrons before.

She began to trace her finger over them. The wood healed beneath her fingertip as the scratches letters vanished.

_Whore._

_Slut._

She worked over the worse words, ones she wouldn’t dare to repeat.

“Reports suggest that the Malfoys have been located in France,” Snape said, his voice level. “Bellatrix will be attending to the matter personally. This may mean a softening of the ranks until she returns.”

"Perhaps it's a good time to move people," Remus looked at the table, where Hermione's fingers lingered. "Or worse, as she's in our way over there. If she intercepts an arrival, that's a dozen people at risk."

“Sounds like her, just pops out of the woodwork and takes out twenty Muggles, then poof, she’s gone,” Fred raised a brow, though he hadn’t looked to Snape as he spoke. He was worse than Ron, as he wouldn’t stop staring at Hermione.

As if he were trying to read her through her skin or eyes, in search of something to latch onto. Her marriage was written on her forearm and her wrist. Snape hadn't endeared himself as a doting husband, not as he's stalked in after her and watched her sit with straight lines to his posture. The odds stacked higher against them, so much so that not even she could defend them. There was no 'them' to defend.

Along with the tilt of the Daily Prophet?

They were waiting for her to confess like she’d been brought to church, forced to kneel with her bruised heart on her tongue.

She kept her head down. She had no complaints. If anything, she had started eating better at Snape’s, which she refused to point out as a benefit. The Weasleys would balk and tell her she should have asked, should have visited more, should have, should have — 

She should have done a great many things, but a future was not built on what should have been. She should have been with Ron, and she should have tried harder to protect Harry. No, the dynamic of 'should' had to be left behind, or she would drown in her misery over the state of things. She didn't listen to their back and forth, nor to the strategy of stake-outs. She was never placed unless she asked and she wasn't sure what help she could be. She was so tired lately. Even worse now, with the perpetual heat in her face and the nauseous dwell in her stomach.

Her fingers traced the Muggle curse words, ones that someone had carved with their keys or even a switchblade.

 _Cunt_.

_Fuck._

"You know everything, go on, what's your big idea?" Ron kicked the leg of the table by mistake.

(She hoped by mistake.)

She drew her hand away, to dig her nails into her palm.

“I have suspicions,” Snape’s lips twitched. “There are several locations no one has thought to check.”

“We can’t go to Hogwarts on a whim,” Fred snapped. “We’ve got no proof that he’s there, not until you're back for the new semester. Besides, of all places to drop the sod, I doubt Bellatrix would leave him there. Too dangerous.”

The table was emptier than usual. There was movement in Scotland, several dozen Death Eaters spotted. What few members they had were sent there, to scout, but it wouldn’t be anything useful.

George, Ron, Ginny, and Fred sat at their end. Remus and Tonks sat at the other. 

Molly hadn’t come, neither had Aurthur.

 _“No wonder the Order hasn’t managed to do anything except die by the dozens.”_ She can hear the mockery like his chin was tucked by her cheek, his lips against the shell of her ear.

“Whatever they’re up to in the north’ll have something to do with his body, I’m sure of it,” Remus waved his hand, his fingers moving in gentle waves.

Remus wasn’t a tactician. Hermione had no idea how he had ascended to the head of the Order, not with his quiet nature. But he listened and learned, along with his place among other werewolves.

Kingsley worked remotely. He managed to remain active in the Ministry as one of their last resources. He was overworked, and several Traces were laid on him. It was too dangerous for him to meet them here. It’d been months since Hermione had heard from him. Ron said he’d been to the joke shop a few times that month, to pass off an envelope of Auror files, ones that wouldn’t be missed.

Her chest ached.

He should come to Obscurus Books, to see her.

But he didn’t.

She wasn’t useful, the lesson was imprinted upon her again and again. The worst lesson, her deepest ache. She wasn't strong enough to fight, she wasn't clever enough to Trace, she wasn't tenacious enough to argue for her place... She wasn’t even allowed to endure her own torture. She was a weakness narrowed down into a pale, frail body. No matter how much she read or how hard she worked, she wasn’t expected to go on missions, she wasn’t allowed.

But she had something, something useful — 

But she can't tell them about the Malfoys. She can't bring the words out, not even if she wanted to.

Her throat tensed as Snape shot a look at her. He’d made a habit of reading her against her will and made no secret of it.

Ron scowled at Snape. But he wouldn’t look at her. Not above the wrist, not past her ring.

“We should wait to see what they come back with,” Remus said in a low voice, his fingers steeped so that his chin could rest on the bridge between his fingers. “If they’ve located the Malfoys, that’s two more senior Death Eaters to their ranks… That’s no small thing.”

“Draco is malleable,” Snape’s lips twitched. “He could be used for information.”

Hermione didn't disguise how her brows jumped. It almost looked like it came as a surprise to her, and it had. But not in the way the rest of the room reacted, their jeers at the idea of Malfoy as anything but a target.

“You think he’ll be trusted with anything?” George fidgeted with his thumbs. He didn’t scowl at Hermione like Ron, or glare at Snape. He just looked exhausted, the same as Ginny.

Ginny had been moody since Oliver refused to speak to her after an argument over the results of a Quidditch match between them. She wanted to break it off with him and he wouldn't respond to her. They only had owls, and he'd not returned a single one. Ginny complained about it, in passing, but never more than a scoff.

Snape laid his hands flat on the table, palms up. “His family trusts me. I’m sure I could make use of them.”

Hermione thought of Narcissa, trembling, stuck with false memories of being raped by Snape.

A false memory, no doubt, but visceral enough to feel real. She’d wedged the image into her mind as if the memory wasn’t as bad as a physical reaction, as if she’d done Hermione a favor. And perhaps she had, in a small, dark way. She had to make them believable, her own arms in the edges of the vision, her Mudblood scar mirrored by his Dark Mark.

Constellations, Sepens Caput. She thumbed her arm through her sleeve, the little metal dots painful to the touch.

They had been false, hadn’t they?

She glared at him.

He didn’t move, not to look at her, not as he waited for the Order to agree with him.

The Order of eight, so fragmented and tired.

_Thin ranks._

“No,” Remus shook his head. “I don’t trust them to be honest with you.”

“Sorry,” Hermione breathed, her first words since she’d arrived. “But what do you mean they won’t be honest?”

Remus gave her a wan smile as if he knew more than she did. “They’ll be just as likely to mislead as Bellatrix.”

"Why?" Hermione couldn't contain her confusion.

"As if that git would want to do anything good with his miserable little life," Ron barked with laughter, too loud, too forced. "If he's even alive. Imagine, hiding for three years -- "

“I bet Malfoy’ll turn up to the Death Eaters and probably piss himself,” Fred waved a hand at Hermione.

“Yeah, 'cause he was with them for what, a year?” Ron ground his teeth louder than Hermione liked. “Been hiding out for three, probably doesn’t even know how to fight."

"You don't know that," Hermione dropped her gaze to her hands.

"If I see him…” Ron made a gesture, a fist to his palm. "We'll see, won't we."

The threat lingered in the air, as if a schoolyard rivalry were enough to justify murder.

She felt rather stupid, in all honesty.

Snape didn’t argue the point further. He remained seated, quiet and distant.

“If the larger figures within the Death Eaters are in France for the Malfoy family,” Hermione said, which drew the room’s attention. “Is there any locations we know of where Snatchers will be? I would imagine they’d use her time away to fortify, given she won’t be around to oversee assignments.”

“Hermione, you needn’t attend to missions,” Remus’s voice was strained as he spoke, his vocal cords tense.

“I want to,” she folded her hands in front of her, her eyes wide at him. “Please.”

“Ah, let’s see then…” he gave her a strange smile. “There’s a school that’s an ideal location for a base, we believe. It’s abandoned, to our knowledge. Large basement, solid infrastructure. We even considered it for a relocation center, for those downstairs, as I said before.”

“So if it’s clear, we can use it?”

“Don’t check it,” Remus waved a hand at her, slow and lightly curled. “Scout it, let us know if there’s any signs of Dark magic around it. See if anyone goes there. Perhaps check a few different nights if you're..." And his hand settled in Snape's direction, as if to imply she should check with him.

Hermione glared by default.

“I have better things to do than write permission slips for Granger to attend stake-outs,” Snape said, his tone cold.

Hermione’s expression crinkled, her teeth bared. “That sounds promising.”

“It’s on the West side of London, nearer Wales…” He gestured loosely to the paper. “Let us know what you find when you can.”

Snape watched her with patient attention as she accepted a scrawled piece of parchment from Remus. It had an address and a small photo, so as to assist with Apparition. She folded them into a neat square to tuck into her pocket.

The meeting pressed on, though not for much longer. They instead waited in quiet anticipation for their reconnaissance team to return.

And then they returned, less one member.

The quiet cracked.

“They got Percy!” Bill threw a chair the second he arrived. It shattered against a wall and Fleur watched with serene indifference. She didn’t even flinch.

Hermione had to wonder how many chairs she had seen him break. Werewolves, especially new ones, had trouble with their anger.

“It was dark,” Fleur said, her English improved since she’d first married Bill. “We were watching from ze forest, ah — it was Bill, Percy, Charlie…” She continued, her voice softened. “Several boys, I do not know their names. They were with Percy’s group, friends of ‘iz… Not ah, full Order members, but part of one of those — those resistance groups, you know, ze ones that rely on us for relocations of ze injured to France,” she wiggled her fingers, as if that filled in the details.

“When you say, they got Percy…” Ginny’s face was paler by the second, her freckles like flecks of blood.

“We do not know,” Fleur looked sideways at Charlie who was missing his right hand. “We ‘ad to get out.”

Snape stood over the man with languid movements. He acted as if it were a small cut that required a bandaid, even as the blood refused to staunch.

Ron, Fred, and George began towards the stairs as a wall of red hair and broad shoulders, though Ron was a sliver compared to the twins. Hermione leaped up to chase the trio as they bore down to the second floor.

“Don’t!” Hermione shouted after them. “You can’t go get him — “

Ron turned at the foot of the stairs, though Fred and George continued. “Don't?” It isn't even words, it's a breath, a hot flash of resistance because he's a Gryffindor and he can't process the idea of being told to resist.

“Because,” Hermione’s lips parted with a pop as if she had any place to tell them what to do. “It’s dangerous. You don’t know what they’ll do to him,” she rushed down the rest of the steps.

Fred and George had already marched down to the first floor.

“I can tell you that they won’t just let him roll over and team one for the team, Hermione,” Ron sneered. “That only works for — “

She slapped him before he could finish his thought.

He stared at her, heat behind his eyes rather than hurt. Perhaps thankful that she’d stopped his point before he couldn’t take it back. She had hoped he respected her more than that, but clearly not. He had seen the papers. Everyone had.

She didn’t know what to make of his expression, or how he stalked closer.

All she could smell was the sickly sweet rot of old potion ingredients and a spread of croissants they’d taken from the back of a bakery. She hated the second-floor, but not as much as the third-floor. The whole place smacked of damp salt and vinegar. She hated it here, even worse as space was stolen from her. She couldn't breathe.

Hermione took a step back, then another, but Ron didn’t stop. She didn’t know what he would do, but she feared he’d slap her back.

Even worse, he might kiss her, some misplaced tension that he’d imagined between them.

“I’ll never understand you, Hermione. That tripe you said for the papers — the photos. How much of that was real? Or is that you just _trying to survive_ ,” Ron shot her a look, dazed and beyond confused. “It’s your choice how you do it, sure, but you’ve made a shitty one.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Hermione croaked.

“You did,” Ron snapped. “You had me.”

Hermione’s teeth clicked as she stopped herself. It didn’t work that way at all. No one had asked her about the ceremony, or for her experience. No one had asked her about it at all. They had made up their own story about her, the poor bookish girl who was shoved into a marriage with a brooding older man. She was a victim from the second she was to be evaluated, nothing more than someone to be sorry for.

It’s like they had forgotten who she was. Or like she had.

“He hasn’t hurt you has he, Hermione.”

“No,” Hermione said, no hesitation. The image of him above her flashed, but it wasn’t real.

It was a lie Narcissa had told her, to save her.

His throat strained as he glared at the stairs behind her through the dark.

“Your brother should have his hand back within the next day or so,” Snape said from the shadows. He stepped down to the second floor.

Blood stained his slim white cuffs. She couldn’t imagine how bloody the rest of his robes must be.

“Have you had your closure, Weasley.”

“Oh shut up, you creepy git,” Ron shoved him in the shoulder, though he didn’t move. Not even a little. “Bet you’re loving this — poor girl can’t even say no.”

Snape shot a sideways glance at Hermione. “Shall we?”

Hermione didn’t have room to say no.

Even if he said she did.

She nodded, unable to look at Ron. It was too little, too late. The wrong question about the wrong thing, it was just wrong, wrong, wrong.

He hadn’t reached out to her, hadn’t checked on her. He’d left it to the meeting, and even then he’d only used it against her as an attack. As a way to bring up their past, as if their love was paramour.

No one would write about their love.

Not even her.

Snape was several inches shorter than Ron, yet still stood half a foot taller than her. As he headed for the stairs, she followed, her head bent down and tears down her face.

_Whore._

_Slut._

Perhaps she should have run. Her lion heart screamed for her to run, to survive.

Either her spirit or her body would survive but not both.

She didn't want to know which would break first.

…

They arrived back to Spinner’s End sometime after nine o’clock. She’d heard Snape mention the name of it earlier in the week and it made sense. She thought of the old mill at the end of the street, where Dementors nested in the tops of the towers.

Hermione watched as Snape vanished downstairs to his private study. The cabinet clicked behind him. She didn’t have to look around the corner to see that. He had a pattern to his nights. He was either in his bedroom, or he was downstairs.

She remained in her bedroom.

She looked at the books he had left in small piles. The book on purification rituals and of Necromancy. She picked one up and flipped it over, though it was deep green leather on either side. Human skin, she realized with grim dread. She flipped it open, to see the Malfoy name drawn in cursive black ink.

Her finger traced along the curls of each letter.

They had trusted her to keep their secret, and she had. She hadn’t seen a chance to bring it up, and Snape had mentioned Malfoy as a means of information. She hadn’t wanted to mention them, as it seemed like they recognized the threat. But then again, the bond ensured that she submitted to Snape and he had told her not to speak of it. She didn't know if there were strict limitations, and that was the worst way to discover it. If she confessed the Malfoys had plans alongside the Order, it would split their focus and cause panic and -- 

And to tell them would involve too many details that she couldn’t hand over freely. Narcissa had endured torture on her behalf, been mentally torn apart for her in more ways than Hermione could list.

The image of Bellatrix over her, the pain.

Snape above her, a deeper hurt.

She snapped the book shut, bile in her throat. Her whole face crumpled at the very idea of it, as if that were better, to be left with the memories.

As if the memories weren't just as awful.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t something that had happened to her, no matter how real it felt. She couldn't imagine him ever forcing her into such a situation, but the love potion made such things eerie and real. If she had enough skin against his, perhaps her mind wouldn't be able to pick apart the compulsion and herself. She would just want him, fully, and the thought made her gag.

She glared at the kitchen after the trail of darkness that followed Snape. The book of Necromancy slipped from her grip and back onto its pile. She walked around the shelves, her fingers danced on their spines. If there was an order to the books, she hadn’t discovered it yet.

They were crammed in wherever they’d fit, three books deep. You’d have to remove twelve books to secure one, by her estimation.

She thought of her manuscript, the one about pixie offal.

Snape was a potion master. She imagined he’d have a book on the topic if she dug around deeply enough. She needed something like that to distract herself, something about the guts of small creatures. A real problem she could fix, a problem with an end in sight.

Hermione spent the better part of an hour digging through the shelves with her hands.

They had been charmed to not respond to magic, so as to not be summoned. She wondered if Snape was a sadist as she began to heft down the books from the third shelf. He must have designed the room to be as uncomfortable as possible. It wasn't as if he had guests or shared his books. But he hadn't forbidden her from them, he didn't seem to care what she did.

A hand snagged her wrist.

Malfoy.

“Must you be so quiet?” She exhaled, high and tight.

No response. Not with words. Instead, he caught her chin between his finger and thumb, those silver knives for eyes dug deep into her mind.

He was in her mind before she had a chance to do anything. He raked his fingers through their first meeting. He lingered on her by the wall, then to her on the floor bleeding by her own nails. His mother, him, sweet then bitter, the Dementors, her day at work, the private misery that no one had checked in on her, her excitement to be paid seventy Galleons, her nap at her old apartment with a thick envelope of bills.

Their meeting wherein Narcissa bled her memories into Hermione, and she felt his grip tighten so much she might bruise, at the pain and the rape and the mixture of cruelties Hermione had endured through Narcissa; the cruelties Narcissa had inflicted upon herself to save Hermione. This was the worst, as Malfoy sliced back and forth between the memories, over and over, repeat performances, her pain, Narcissa's pain, over and over, over and over --

Then her time at the Order meeting, Snape’s comment about how malleable Draco was, Ron pressing into her space, the fight, then Snape’s demand for her to leave.

She was slammed back into her body. His hand shifted from her wrist to her throat, but not tight.

Just enough to keep her in place.

“You didn’t tell them?”

“Tell them what?” Hermione croaked around the shapes of his fingers, which dug into her jaw as she spoke. She maintained a private dignity as he pinned her to the bookshelf, even if she should be afraid. She could be indignant and afraid in equal measure.

“The Order,” he said. His grip shifted, fingers on her pulse. “About us.”

“No,” Hermione latched onto his wrist to pry it away but his grip tightened. The fear began to outweigh the indigence.

“Your use to us is over, you realize,” he crept closer, just a fraction. “I'm curious to know how you intend to make yourself worthwhile, for my mother’s suffering and sake.”

Hermione struggled for words, though her brows flattened to dark lines over darker eyes. “No one has to prove themselves useful to survive,” she wretched his hand free, though she imagined he’d taken pity on her.

Malfoy gave her a nasty smile, his gaze lingered on her face then her left arm. “I encourage you to be careful.”

“Careful?” Hermione wheezed. “As careful as you, locked away in France like a scared child all these years?”

Hermione expected him to snap. She expected him to grab her by the throat and slam her into the shelves, to knock them so violently with the back of her head that they showered around them. Maybe Snape would notice his wife was being murdered by hand, maybe not.

But he didn’t.

He laughed.

“Yes, that’s — ” his lips twitched, pure amusement inched his smirk wider. “What was it that Ron said? That he’d kill me if he saw me? That was the implication.”

Hermione’s lip wobbled against her will.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. I imagine they’ll want me to prove my loyalty,” his tone was sharp, it cut straight to her spine. She couldn’t help but watch his lips, for his eyes were too sharp. At least there was a softness in his lips, she could bury herself in that. “The Weasleys won’t miss a son.”

Malfoy looked around the shape of her at the shelves before he withdrew a book. He opened it to skim it before he shoved it into her chest.

A book on unconventional uses for pixie offal.

“Were you even trying?”

She watched his back as he retreated to the kitchen. She heard the cabinet pivot open and closed, the rasp of the mechanical parts he vanished below.

**Monday — 20th August, 2001.**

Hermione unpacked her manuscripts onto her desk. With the pixie offal manuscript now researched and reviewed, she could make an offer. She also picked out her Daily Prophet, which she’d bought but not yet had a chance to read. She’d been running around since her heels hit the pavement outside.

The Daily Prophet was a skewed narrative, but even the nature of the skew was revealing. She was able to see what they considered their victories and the failures they let slide. There was no mention of Percy’s abduction. She hadn’t stuck around to find out if the twins had succeeded, but she hadn’t needed to.

They weren’t in the paper either, to her relief.

She read it through as quickly as she could. Reports of swaths of Dementors taking to old hospitals in the lower end of London. A girl had been married off to Theodore Nott. She grimaced as she saw a young girl beside him. At least they were of comparable age, only three or so years apart at worst.

Hermione tossed the paper aside.

…

The dredge of day to day work felt strange when sandwiched with the intense pressure of Snape’s home.

Hermione hadn’t seen Narcissa since they’d last spoken on Friday. The same could be said for Malfoy, but she was glad of that. She was left like a neglected child, with no friends to visit and no specific chores to do.

She didn’t want chores, but the house felt like a hotel and she couldn’t endure it for much longer.

She gave herself chores; a schedule, if you will.

After months of painful randomization and precise imprecision, it was rather nice to be back into a predictable flow.

The school became her primary project. She went there each day for a week, Monday through Thursday, for an hour at a time. From six o’clock each evening just after work she would arrive, and at seven o’clock she would return to Snape’s.

Each night she would go there straight after work.

And each night, she saw nothing.

But she had memorized the shape of the school and which rooms had furniture. She studied it from several angles and did her best to catalog it with her golden notes. At least it was an active project.

Not a soul appeared in those four days, not a scrap of paper moved.

That was her first project.

When she arrived at Snape’s home at seven, she began her second project. Her second project was perhaps more terrifying.

She cleaned, viciously.

Monday night, she started to alphabetize the books and dusted them. That would be an ongoing project, given she couldn’t use magic for either. She would return to this task when she was bored, or anxious.

Tuesday night, she’d gotten rid of all the cobwebs in the corners of the rooms and bottled all the insects that had uses in potions. She left them in the kitchen and they were gone the next morning.

Wednesday, she cleaned the walls. She scrubbed them until the yellowed wallpaper looked new again.

Thursday night, she scrubbed the carpet. That took all of her evening, but by the end of it, the house looked…

Dingy, sad, but less like a house that had been neglected. The fermented smell of steam and rotted potions ingredients had wavered, at least.

The most she got from Snape was a pause as he walked through the cramped study. He stood, gave the room a look over once. “Don’t touch my books.”

Then he vanished into the cupboard.

She didn’t listen, not as she snatched up a her next book from the floor, to be placed in the correct location.

It was a messy system, purely alphabetical by title. She would pick up a book and decide where it fit on the shelf, and move books around until it worked. She couldn’t use magic and some books didn’t even have titles, or they were so old that the title had rubbed off altogether.

She would need to catalog the subjects to make sure there were enough to fill each. She refused to code it based on the subject, title, and author.

Further to all that, there was the question of whether Astronomy or Divination could be crammed together, but that wouldn’t work. And Dark Arts, would it be based on defensive and offensive because each book was a gradation of the nature of the subjects, some more defensive, some less, so would that be one category or three — 

Perhaps she would have time, she realized. This was to be her home for…

Well, forever.

After the uneventful night at the school, Hermione sent word to Remus that they should move people across. She would provide more information later, but they couldn’t afford to store people at their headquarters.

The current space was too small and dirty. At least with the school, they would be better equipped to segregate the purpose of each wing and enchant the plumbing. It had also been visited by the Snatchers last week, and that strange man in the trenchcoat.

**Friday — 24th August, 2001.**

Hermione spent her day listing out ideas for the new location…

And then it was midnight.

Hermione realized she’d not stopped to attend the Order meeting. She had been so invested in her work with the books and the organization of them that it had slipped her mind. She felt like she’d been Confunded to forget, but that was her being neurotic.

In truth, the meetings felt less useful each time she attended them. She had sent her thoughts to Remus that morning, it wasn’t as if she needed to be there to repeat them.

No one asked her opinion, no one cared to ask her questions.

She wondered if she’d been missed. 

No one had come for her.

And so she continued to sort books into piles based on their titles, for an easier time of organization. She was on the floor when Snape arrived, his expression cool and his eyes wild. 

“I thought I told you to leave them alone.”

She didn’t think he cared that much. He would have snapped louder or hit her, or something. She didn’t know what he was capable of. She doubted he’d do any of that. He didn’t speak to her, didn’t linger in her presence. 

She was a pet he had to maintain, and she made it far too easy for him.

Or, she had, until now.

“It was annoying to see them strewn about with no order,” Hermione laid her head against the wall behind her, her chin angled towards the ceiling. She didn't look at Snape, didn't care to. He had his back to her anyway, given the swath of black she had to squint at to see details in. "Anything happen at the meeting?"

He didn't answer, not that she'd expected otherwise.

She raised her left forearm, the same one that had been marked. The faint dots that glowed against her forearm faded, but they would pulse silver every so often.

“I’ve been wondering,” she said, her voice gentler from her weariness. "How did you know I was going to be evaluated?"

"Does it matter?" Severus moved towards the bookshelf to snatch a volume from the middle shelf. He looked at it, then to her, and left.

Hermione squinted after him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Saturday — 25th August, 2001.**

Hermione awoke to a cool autumn morning. She hadn’t many landmarks outside her window as the skies were grey and dull, but the few trees had begun to turn orange. Her fever hadn’t gone away yet, between the headache and stomach ache.

She ignored the meal laid out for her, unable to think of food.

Once dressed in jeans and a sweater, she went downstairs to resume the organization of Snape’s books. She didn’t have anywhere to be, and the thought of being outside didn’t appeal to her. Not with the knowledge that her mind was an open call to any Legilimens that the Death Eaters had on call. She kept to her house most days and avoided crowded places as much as quiet ones. She didn’t remember the last time she simply went out for the sake of being out.

She was tired and sick, and she just wanted to do something simple to occupy her mind.

Snape appeared soon after. He was always in the same robes, or robes of a similar design. He looked like he’d been awake for several hours from how sleek and confident his movements were. She didn’t know if he’d come from the kitchen or his room.

But then he lingered behind her, like a shadow.

Hermione looked across her shoulder at him, thin jaw pressed to her bony shoulder.

Snape stared down at her as if he expected something to happen. She returned to her work, her hair drawn into a messy knot atop her head. She had expected him to leave, but he didn’t. Instead, he remained, and he watched her. She didn’t know why he normally treated her like a dying plant he didn’t want to deal with.

Hermione had unpacked the fourth bookshelf, though she had no idea how many there were in total. She would know when she was done, she supposed.

“You haven’t been down to the lower floor.”

“No, I haven’t,” Hermione turned again to look at him, a tome of torture methods for magical creatures. She slipped that onto the floor, in a distant pile of books she’d put in harder to reach spots.

Snape narrowed his eyes at her as if he’d catch a lie from her.

“It’s your space.”

Snape’s menace faltered for a second as if he’d realized she was here. It was as surprised as she’d ever seen him.

“Same as your bedroom; I don’t have any reason to go in, so I don’t go in,” Hermione explained as if it were clear. 

“I expected you to be down there more than I am,” he said, as if out to catch her in a lie.

“Why would I do that?”

“There are books,” he said, derision in his tone. “Is that not enough to grab your attention?”

Hermione watched him with a tense line on her forehead. She settled the book onto her lap, her lips quirked in a private way. “Are you asking me to join you?”

“If I were asking you to join me, I would have asked.”

“Would you like me to join you?” Hermione asked with cautious force.

Snape vanished, no words, mere angles, and shadows as the cabinet swung into the wall.

Hermione continued to unpack the books into small piles, based on their title. By lunch, the rattle of silverware sounded as a club sandwich appeared with freshly squeezed juice. She let her hands settle in her lap for a moment before she walked over to it, to pick it up. But rather than linger upstairs to eat, she approached the kitchen cabinet. She pressed it with her hip and it swung inward, as it always did.

No wards. No hesitation.

It took a few minutes to get downstairs, but when she did, she gagged. Something sour slapped her across the face, a mixture of citrus and charcoal floated in the air. Burnt sage clung to her throat as she wound into the core chamber.

She emerged into the circular space with the tray intact. Snape was bent over a cauldron on the far right, his hands busy in careful shapes. Several lights flashed from his fingertips, his gaze never faltered. Not even as she set down the silver tray, or as she mumbled an incantation to slice the sandwich into halves. She duplicated the plates and the juice, so the meal was for two instead of one.

“That’s your food.”

Hermione smiled at him in a sardonic way, her brow arched and her lips drawn to one side.

Snape’s hands stilled, his gaze leveled on her. He lingered in a breath, one that puffed his chest and drew his posture up.

“You should eat,” Hermione nudged the platter. She sat on the top of the desk, her ankles crossed and a sandwich clutched between her hands.

Snape looked at her with the same empty misery as always, as if she were dead and he was alone in mourning her. He didn’t look at her any other way, not that she wanted him to. He was never happy to see her. She was either something to be angry about or something he pitied. She supposed it was fair as her gaze rested on him with the same weight. She was never expressly happy to see him, just relieved he wasn’t someone worse.

Still, she nudged the platter again, expectant eyes turned to him.

“Have you been ill,” he asked, his tone light.

Hermione swallowed with some difficulty. “Not especially.”

The fever, the heat, the urge to be ill. She felt like she was missing something like she needed something, but she could never pick what it was. Or rather, she didn’t want to think about what her body demanded of her, as if she ignored it, the problem might go away. It all bubbled beneath the surface of her skin. She looked at her sandwich, which shook between her weak grip.

She heard Snape swallow as he reached towards her, hesitant. Her eyes met his with curious detachment as he gestured to her. She narrowed her gaze and nodded, unsure if he had something he needed to do. He had said he wanted to work with her to remove the mark, hadn’t he? Something about it. She had forgotten in the haste of work and the school and Percy and — she had forgotten about her marriage to Snape. Somehow, though it permeated everything.

He caught her chin with his thumb and forefinger. His gaze met hers with the same look that Madame Pomfrey would wear whenever Hermione would end up there with bruises or bumps from her adventures. It was strange to see the concern on a face so designed for sneers. She doubted he meant it, to treat her with any modicum of gentleness. And as his fingers turned her skin to fires, she realized he’d not really looked in her eyes since Narcissa had shared her memories.

He looked at her in passing, to check that she wasn’t about to step out of line. A line she barely understood, to her defense. But she kept quiet and kept to his side, and she thought she’d done everything right. She didn’t know if this contact was a punishment or a clinical step, to test how the love potion had settled in her system. It was worse to have him close, to have his fingers on her skin, flesh to flesh, his gaze intent on her.

Because he saw it as crisp as she felt it.

Heat, all through her chest, like she’d been submerged into flames. The urge to lean into his touch further, to press herself into his arms, as she had been at the Ministry. The need to be with him — 

He shoved her hard as he stepped back as if the heat she’d radiated had burned him. It twinged her neck and made her teeth click.

Hermione blinked at him, her chest twice as painful as before. The heat radiated through her, deeper, darker, and she wanted to be sick. She reached for him, to shake him for answers, but he stepped away from her.

“Get out,” he repeated, the command in his voice unmistakable.

Hermione slipped from the desk with mechanical movements, her head dropped and tears in her eyes. “Ashwinder eggs, moonstone powder, and peppermint,” her throat clamped as she tried not to cry. She didn’t even know why she wanted to cry; she had been rejected, she supposed, that was her grief. Not on a mental level, but a physical one. Like when you flinched from a slap before it landed, she felt sharp shame.

Snape took a step away from her as she took a step forward.

“Were you going to tell me?” Hermione’s cheeks deepened, red and bright.

“It’s not something to linger on.”

“But I should have known, you should have told me,” Hermione felt her throat clench. “The Stella Vinculum, it’s partially a love potion, isn’t it. I realized it had to be a component, given the compulsions…”

His throat shifted beneath pale skin. “Not by design — you needed to have your mark match mine,” he said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “I did all that I could to keep it restricted to physical touch, for your sake.”

“So if I touch you — “

“Don’t,” he said, fear in his voice. “Please, don’t.”

Her heart broke in her chest, the shards of it lodged into her ribs. “Why not just tell me?”

“I’ve told you more than you need to know,” he looked at the sandwich, uncertainty behind his eyes.

“It will wear off eventually, won’t it?”

“It should have. But it hasn’t,” his voice faded.

Hermione made a strange face, stuck between grief and confusion. She crossed her arms so as to avoid reaching for him, She had felt so sick until he’d touched her. She imagined the closer they were, the more relief she would be afforded. 

“I’ll be at Hogwarts until June,” he waved a hand at her, to dismiss her anxiety. He looked towards the cauldron he’d been standing beside, distant gloom in his taut features. “If I am successful, I can remove the mark and the curse before then.”

Hermione stared at the green light beyond the iron gate, as something to give her attention to instead of Snape.

Snape had returned to his work as if she had left.

“All the girls had this happen, didn’t they.”

Snape continued to flick his fingers over the cauldron-like a conductor. His hands didn’t falter, not even as his brow furrowed.

“Natalie escaped, she must have found a way,” Hermione shoved the weight of her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s find a way to ask her.”

“Natalie’s been executed, Hermione,” Snape spoke in a small, strained voice. “Conspiring to attack her husband.”

“Conspiring?” Hermione repeated as if that would help it make sense.

Snape continued to work over the cauldron, thick glittering sigils appeared over the top of the rim. Each revealed a temperature and a few ingredients. She watched them because she had no idea what else to do. She had seen Natalie in the Ministry with the Snatchers.

Had she ever gotten back to her husband?

Hermione stared, bold-faced as she the urge to cry rise. But it didn’t follow through. She just felt numb all over again.

“When did they kill her?”

“Does it matter?” Snape looked over to her, diagnostics formed along his fingertips. Greens and reds, mixed and matched, then they faded.

**Monday — 27th of August, 2001.**

Hermione pushed into Obscurus books with her arms full of bags. She had picked up their ink and their quills, as well as a few reams of parchment. It was her pleasure to be out in Diagon Alley normally, but now she got looks from people who half-recognized her as the girl who’d married Severus Snape.

They were under the impression she was in his pocket, his student-turned-lover, his heart, and his life.

She dropped the bag onto the counter and met Penelope’s eye.

Penelope was a bland girl by nature, with sallow skin and a perpetually bored expression as if someone had just told her that a goldfish had died. Sad, but not too sad. That made the smile on her face and the flush in her cheeks all the stranger to see.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, unsure if that was a good way to ask someone why they were happy. But she didn’t trust Penelope’s happiness.

“Someone’s signed on as a new owner,” Penelope sung, sweet and light. “Said they liked seeing competition in the market.”

“Oh,” Hermione began to unpack the essentials, which Penelope ignored. “Will that change anything?”

“Not for you, no,” Penelope’s tone shifted, to one of skepticism. 

“Would I know them?” Hermione asked, unsure if she was meant to be asking.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she smiled sweetly. “It’s not yet official, I can’t tell you anything.”

“Let me know when you can then.” Hermione set her bag aside. It was a reusable tote with a fat cat on a pool float shaped like a donut; the bag said ‘Donut Disturb’.

It had made her laugh. It’s the little things.

Penelope watched Hermione as she vanished down the hallway and into her office.

She picked through her bag, to pull out her work and the Daily Prophet she had found with her breakfast that morning. She hadn’t yet unfurled it, as she had needed to collect the supplies for the store and a book on love potions. Fred had recommended it, as they had created their own line of crush potions; softer, less intent than love, with caps and cautions. They had worked so hard on limiting the potion that Hermione thought they must know how to do the inverse.

She’d said it was in the interest of a manuscript, and Fred had obliged.

Hermione regretted her slack approach to the paper as soon as she saw Malfoy’s glittering smile.

The Malfoys return to Britain was announced across the Daily Prophet in gleaming, bold black print. Mrs. Malfoy looked beautiful as ever if a little thin. Malfoy looked aloof and distracted, as he assisted his father in standing. Lucius looked withered as if he’d been left to rot in Azkaban since they’d vanished. His hair hung lank and his eyes looked sunken.

Pureblood Magic Defies Mundane Entrapment by Rita Skeeter.

_Consider this a day of celebration! One of the oldest pureblood family lineages, thought to have been burned away during an explosion in 1998, has resurfaced with a heartbreaking story about loss and trauma. The Malfoy family, a family of great philanthropy and charity, was discovered in a private mansion they purchased in France during the sixteenth century. While the Malfoys are known for their estates, this one was meant to be a safe house — and became their prison._

_“During the height of the war, we were responsible for housing several of the terrorists… Just until we were able to contact the authorities,” Narcissa said, delicate tears like pearls down her cheeks. “They had done so much damage — Harry, and his two — two awful friends,” her voice wavered. “One of them… I cannot remember who… They killed all of our house elves, demanded that we leave the country.”_

_“We refused,” Lucius said, a stern line in his handsome jaw. “We were not going to be intimidated out of our home. One of them — a girl, she — cast… Some spell, we cannot be sure what, and… We were unconscious. By the time I awoke, they had banished us to France.”_

Hermione nibbled her thumbnail, her brow furrowed. They were making up details and facts as if there were no way to check. She adjusted her posture, her ankles crossed.

_“We tried to return, but there were enchantments and wards to keep us in. Our own blood magic turned against us,” Narcissa sobbed like an elegant swan, her throat bobbed with tragedy. “It took months before we even recalled our own names, even longer to regain use of magic.”_

_“It took the might of our family’s magic to find us, to save us,” Lucius rested a hand on his wife’s, though the pair appear empty and shaken from their three years of captivity._

Hermione tossed the paper away, her fingers pressed to her temples. They had kept her out of it, though they had damned Harry, Ron and herself by proxy. They hadn’t specifically pointed a finger at her, but they’d not done her any favors, either. If anyone were to look at it closer, it’d seem as if Hermione had blown up their house, blanked their memories and sent them to her home in France.

The sheer power of the magic required to achieve that was beyond her abilities.

The photo of the Malfoy family wasn’t much help either. They had decided to opt-out of the war out of cowardice and returned because of necessity. They had returned with the intention of dealing behind secrets and tearing apart the Death Eaters for their own ends.

…

Hermione arrived at Snape’s with a chocolate croissant between her teeth and her arms full of books.

She hadn’t anticipated Malfoy stood a few inches away from her point of arrival. Her drooped expression lifted as she stepped back, the books slopped from her arms.

He remained unaffected, in dress robes and a slack expression distaste.

Hermione broke through several strained questions, why he was here, was quite pleased with himself for scaring her. But it mixed together in a frantic bundle, and she picked up her fallen books with all the aggression she didn’t want to throw at him. She couldn’t make her mouth work, given she had the croissant still between her teeth. He moved to help her. Nor did he explain why he was here, or why he had stood so close to the center of the room as if he knew where she’d land.

“You’re too predictable.”

“So?” She took a massive bite out of her croissant.

Malfoy shrugged a shoulder, his hand tucked into the slim pocket of his dress robes. His gaze narrowed onto her as if he’d seen something of note.

“Did you need something?”

Malfoy’s expression hardened as his brow flexed higher. He didn’t speak. Instead, he snatched out his wand and pointed it at her in what little space they had.

Hermione flung her armful of books at him. He deflected the books so they landed in a stacked pile. She’d pulled out her wand, which she pointed it at his chest. Her poor croissant was lost to the floor.

“Put it away, Granger.”

“No,” she snapped. “You said, oh, I have no use — is this you cleaning up loose ends?”

“No,” he twisted his wand and she felt her own wand strain in her palm. She clutched it with two hands, to keep it steady at his chest.

Malfoy approached which forced her wand to drop out of proximity. He stood, head bent down to examine her. His gaze flicked between her eyes and her lips before he reached out to swipe her cheek, where a smudge of chocolate had landed. She wouldn’t look at him. That was the solution. His hand dipped out of her vision, and she could have sworn he licked the chocolate off his thumb — 

“You can’t attend tonight with all that you know.”

“You don’t get to turn up and wipe my memories at your discretion,” Hermione snapped. “Wait, what do you mean, tonight?”

Malfoy hesitated, surprise narrowed pupils swung to glare at the kitchen. He turned his back to her, which she didn’t exploit — she should have — but she didn’t know what this was about. She wanted to know more than she wanted to hex him.

She followed him down into the private study that Snape kept beneath the house, where Snape stood in neater robes than he tended to wear. His style remained formal most days regardless, slim fit and dark. He and Malfoy looked matched almost as if it were a uniform.

“You can’t bring her like this,” Malfoy gestured wide with his arm to her.

“Your mother must attend, and I cannot be seen to forgo her inclusion into events. It will be suspicious if she and Narcissa are never seen together.”

Malfoy grabbed Hermione by her bicep, to drag her closer to Snape. “You can hear her, can’t you?”

Hermione shot a confused look between them, as Snape and Malfoy glared at each other. She felt her mind whirl at their conversation. They didn’t trust her to lie to Bellatrix, even less because she had no mastery of Occlumency. She was an open book for anyone who cared to look closer at her, but she did her best to never be seen.

“And you propose that we wipe her memories.”

“She’s useless to us if she’s dead,” Malfoy shook Hermione a little, just enough to gesture with her.

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not right here,” she stamped on Malfoy’s foot, to get him to let her go. It didn’t work; instead, he gripped her tighter.

“You were the one to suggest her for this, Draco.”

Hermione frowned, to look at Snape and Malfoy for an answer. She received none.

Malfoy’s grip loosened as he shoved Hermione away. She stumbled into Snape, who caught her with his chest and a clothed hand. He’d wadded it into his robes, to keep their skin contact limited. He was still warm, pleasantly warm and she pressed into him for the brief second she was allowed.

Until he shoved her back and she felt like being sick.

Malfoy’s jaw tightened as he looked at her, as if in search of something behind her eyes. Whatever he found made him retract, as he stepped back and pity bloomed. “You haven’t negated the love potion yet? Are you even trying?”

Snape didn’t lash out as Malfoy wanted. Even Hermione, without the ability to read others, could see past the thin attack at Snape’s skills.

“I didn’t have Voldemort’s blood to test it against,” he ignored Hermione as he tended to. Even as she stared at him, hunger behind her eyes.

“Is there anything you can do?” Malfoy drew his wand towards Hermione again.

The thin hawthorn wand spiraled into the air within seconds and landed in Snape’s palm.

“If you take her to this event as she is, with all that she knows, we’re dead.”

“If you think Bellatrix will come within spitting distance of me by choice, you are mistaken.”

“So you’re going to be with her the whole time?” Malfoy said, his voice seeded with doubt.

“She is my wife,” his voice took on a silky quality, which Hermione’s nose twitched at. “Her continued safety is my utmost priority.”

She looked to the man, who hadn’t acknowledged the wedding except in the sparsest terms. 

Malfoy’s jaw locked as he glared down Snape, tension drawn from his jawline to his throat. He didn’t look at Hermione this time. He was focused on Snape as if his gaze could kill the man.

“I imagine Bellatrix will have more interest in you than me.” 

“I won’t speak to anyone,” Hermione said, her voice soft. “Whatever this event is — “

“It’s a welcome back party for the Malfoys at the Lestrange Manor,” Snape said, his voice level. “I was going to leave you at home, but Draco has brought to my attention the necessity of having you appear alongside Narcissa, at least once.”

Hermione dropped her attention to her right arm.

“Your mother,” Hermione said, her voice croaked. “Your mother asked me if I knew what Cruciatus was like. I imagine she’s forgotten. Perhaps you have too.”

Malfoy turned his pointed gaze to her.

“I resisted your aunt even with her Legilimency like a sword,” she lifted her gaze to Malfoy’s, her jaw set. “Your mother gave me her memories, the ones she gave to Bellatrix — if I have to, I can use those.”

“This is my family’s life, Granger. We can’t have you screw it up because of your ego.”

“My ego!” She hissed between her teeth. “You forced me into this arrangement, you demanded I help you, you pointed the finger at me in the Prophet. You don’t get to redefine my level of involvement, you already pushed me into the middle of it.”

Malfoy’s throat bobbed, as Snape watched with cautious attention. 

“Trust me when I say I dealt with your aunt once,” Hermione shoved her sleeve up, to show the scar that Bellatrix had carved into her. “I can deal with her again.”

Malfoy stared at her forearm. What brief sympathy appeared vanished in a flash, his teeth grit as he looked to Snape. Whatever he had to say remained behind his teeth as he vanished.

Hermione rolled her sleeve back into place. Her breathing had become ragged and her pulse felt too strong beneath her skin. She could feel it against her eardrum and throat as if she could taste it. She didn’t look at Snape, not as she stormed up to her room.

Half an hour later, a soft knock sounded on her door.

“You will need to side-along Apparate with me,” he said through the wood. “We won’t be there for long. An hour, at most.”

The sound of footsteps down the stairs sounded moments later.

If it were to be a party, she knew it’d involve something above the grade of jeans and sneakers. She transfigured a pair of socks into long, elegant gloves that went to her elbows. The dress was pale blue, though it had no sleeves, a dipped neckline and exposed back. 

It deserved to be worn somewhere pleasant.

A pillowcase had been transfigured into a pale blue cloak. The more layers she wore, the better.

She had her hair up, messily, but it was better than being easily grabbed. A thin suggestion of mascara laid across her lashes, a swipe of her only lipstick and the spritz of her perfume — she couldn’t manage anything more than that. She didn’t want to stand out, as too dressed up or too plain. She wanted to make an effort, but not so much that she might stand out or look stupid. She didn’t know how to do makeup, and if she did it poorly, that’d be as bad as none at all. 

She felt like a prisoner trussed up for a walk around the courtyard of her jail.

She still felt hot, and too warm.

By the time she got downstairs, she thought she’d be ready. But she wasn’t.

Not as Snape stood, identical to how he looked usually. He looked to her unperturbed, no comment either way. She had managed her balanced look, of trying but not. She bundled her cloak up around her arm, misery dragged either corner of her mouth.

“You’ll be asked to hand over your wand when we arrive,” he said, his voice warmer than she liked by her ear. He spoke too softly, and it was worse than ever. “It’s imperative you stay with me.”

“Will they suppress my magic?”

Snape’s lips twitched, pity behind his eyes. “Not unless you give them a reason to.”

Hermione sucked her lips between her teeth as she accepted his arm.

Snape opened his mouth to say something but didn’t. Instead, he resumed his calloused indifference, as they squeezed and popped to the Lestrange Manor.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Deaths and darkness ahead.

**Monday — 27th of August, 2001.**

Snape didn’t feel as warm. The thick layers of his robes matched with the silk around her gave her enough space to mind herself. As the dim shadows failed to focus, she bundled closer to Snape.

They had arrived in a grim, ornate hall with twinkling green lights strung along the ceiling. The walls were slate grey with great vaulted windows, stained glass and serpentine. The windows swayed rather than sat straight as if they had warped over time. Perhaps they'd never been straight to begin with. Chains hung from strange sections of the wall, and Hermione didn’t linger too much at the stains beneath those chains.

“For the house elves,” Snape said, as he stood a measured distance from her.

They stepped into the open hall ahead of them but were stopped by a young wizard. He had an ornate scroll of parchment and an acid green quill. He didn’t speak at first, just scoured the list. As if he’d not even realized they were there, except that he’d forced himself between them and the entrance. His lank brown hair fell into his eyes, which didn't seem focused on the parchment or anything at all. He looked dazed.

“Is there an issue,” Snape said, his voice bored.

“No, no… Oh,” the boy made a loud sound as if he’d realized something. “You’re on the _other_ list.” He dug out a small, scrappy piece of paper. It looked like it’d been torn and reformed.

“Snape.”

“Yeah, I know,” the boy said as if he were about to hex Snape for talking. "You taught me for seven years, think I'd know you," he snorted, ugly and loud.

Snape looked more murderous than Hermione had seen him in a long while.

“Wand,” the boy said, his hand extended towards Hermione. The parchments vanished into a grim cloud with a wave of his hand. He wiggled his fingers at her again, anticipatory.

Snape nudged her forward.

Hermione wanted to keep her wand, but the boy stared her down. She didn’t want to be here at this stupid party. She looked to Snape, who nudged her again, and she broke. She dug out her wand from the slim pocket of her dress, to slap it into his palm.

“How’s the married life?” He asked a smirk spread across his lips. “Never figured you’d marry — either of you,” he pointed at them before he stepped aside, to let them pass.

Hermione scowled over her shoulder at him, but he didn’t watch her. He was distracted by the other pairs who had popped into existence in the receiving hall.

“Toby Wilkes,” Snape said his voice level. “Several years below you, one of the worst students I’d ever had the misfortune of instructing.”

“Oh, I imagine you say that about all your students,” she said with a tart twist to her tone.

In the shadows, she swore he smiled.

Her pocket felt too light and her chest felt too heavy. The winding, dark hallways were a labyrinth, one she was terrified to be forced through. She felt like a button dropped down a drain, as they twisted and turned through the large stone arches and down wet, slick stairs. There were too many extensions, the house bogged down in charms and wards that overlapped. Some rooms appeared and disappeared, their doors not corporeal as she came close to them. They’d reform when she was no longer close enough to reach them as if offended by her mere presence.

They trudged, lower and lower, so far down that she didn’t think they could go any further.

Until they did.

Deeper, deeper.

Then the screams started.

Hermione latched onto Snape’s arm tighter, as he’d been guiding her this far. She wanted to crawl inside his robes and pretend to be a hunchback lump. She settled for being gripped tight to his arm, in case he Apparated and left her behind. He didn’t flinch away, as she expected. He allowed her to remain close as they dipped into a stonework chamber doused with dim green light. It extended a short walk before it bloomed out into the most suffocating hall she'd seen in her life.

She had expected a ballroom, or something grand. She had been somewhat right, as she took in a beautiful hall tucked beneath a giant lake. The glass ceiling above spread across the breadth of the hall. Giant silver bands spread across the glass to brace it, as if that could protect them. She imagined there had to be wards in place to maintain it, as the smallest crack would send the water inward. A band was set up on the far end of the hall between two identical staircases. They were wide and grand, carved out of obsidian. The floors were black marble tiled though the light was too dim for her to work out if they had always been black.

Tables were lined with strange foods, either too ornate or too disgusting for Hermione to identify from a distance. She could see a spread of familiar faces; familiar in the worst way.

Death Eaters, primarily men and women she’d seen in battles. Umbridge was off to one side with bright pink robes that were cut so close to her thigh that Hermione wanted to accept Malfoy’s offer of Obliviation. A few girls stood with their constellations on show, lined up beside their husbands as if that were their life raft in a broken sea. She saw herself in those girls as they shivered in the cold air, varying levels of pleasant. Some looked fine while others looked like they were on death row.

Hermione’s grip loosened on Snape.

Flint was with a girl Hermione didn’t recognize. Her head was angled down at the floor as if she hoped to fall into the floor and never return.

A scream dragged through the air as if it had been torn from a Howler, loud and frantic. Hermione scoured the edges of the crowd and unfortunately found the source of the screams. 

All the walls were lined with stone arches, blocked by iron fences. They were reminiscent of the one in Snape’s personal study. She stared at them as they walked until she saw the shape of a body hunched over, rocking. Crying.

The screams alternated, from joyous to pained. A couple stood by one of the doors, with wands pointed at a cage. Screams of pain from the person in the cage were patterned against the guests' screams of laughter.

Stinging hexes, crueler things, slices, Hermione’s stomach flipped over and over.

“Stay with me,” Snape said, a plea in his tone. He looked no kinder in the dim light. If anything he looked crueler, his brow set and his teeth clenched in a fine line.

She didn’t have to be asked twice.

Of all the ways she could be here, this was the least terrifying. Even as ex-classmates watched her walk by on Snape’s arm… She could endure it. She knew the truth of it, the dynamic, she didn’t have to explain herself to them.

Hermione felt the thud beneath her breastbone and the anxious increase of pressure in her stomach. She breathed with relief as Snape stopped, so she could let his arm go. They were stood in the corner off to the side. A large vase sat between them and the party. Several older men stood around with their hands full of wine and food. One man had a girl with a constellation, who stood motionless beside him. She would sway but otherwise, she was — or, she wasn’t anything.

The crowd shifted and swayed. Hermione met the eye of one man between the vase and Snape’s head.

Scabior. 

But he didn’t approach. She was privately thankful for that, her breath stuck at the back of her throat.

She expected to be carted around as he socialized, but she’d been foolish to think that. Snape didn’t want to be here, didn’t want her there either — but his neck arched as he sought out something. Or someone.

Time dragged in their corner, as no one made an effort to speak to Snape. She doubted people had noticed their entrance, given how no one had looked their way. She felt relieved that they’d managed to slip in, unnoticed, but now it was a guessing game of when they would be. Or, would she be fortunate enough to slip out, unnoticed?

Hermione wiled her time away tucked behind the vase. She watched the reflection of people in the ceiling as if she could pinpoint people of note through it. Instead, she watched the merfolk as they spiraled across. Several squids passed by, fish, it would have been beautiful.

A body had drifted past once, then another. One was rotted beyond recognition. She hadn’t realized it was human. Not until a second body dragged itself across the glass, an expression of surprise the only thing left of them.

No one that she knew, she thought with morbid relief.

“Everyone!”

Hermione’s heart broke.

“Welcome, and, thank you,” Bellatrix swayed across the stage at the far end of the room. The band lingered beside the stage. Their instruments had been taken off too. Hermione remained behind the vase, though she shifted so as to peer over Snape’s shoulder. He dipped to allow her a view.

“I first want to thank you for the entertainment,” she waved a dismissive hand at the musicians. “You did your best! For a performance with such little torture, you — you did _fine_.”

Hermione held her breath, as Bellatrix waved her wand at the band.

They dropped, screams strung through the air.

“There we go! Real music!”

Laughter from the crowd. Tears from Hermione. Her fingers scrabbled against Snape’s back. She clutched onto his robes to steady herself.

“She’s going to kill them,” Hermione whispered.

He shook his head, which she took to mean that Bellatrix wouldn’t kill them. The screams stopped, slowly, and her blood pressure remained too high to feel.

“Get them,” Bellatrix said in a bored tone. Several men in dress robes stunned the band. They levitated the bodies off to the side of the room. They dumped them into one cell, which was barely large enough for two people, let alone fifteen.

“Now — now, now, now,” Bellatrix bounced on the spot, her hands clapped together. “Are we ready for the main event?”

Hermione squinted at the woman, who she’d been too terrified to look at directly. Bellatrix had blood across her mouth, her chest. It made her look vampiric. Her skin looked so much whiter than when Hermione had last seen her. Her hair was spun out like a shrub.

Cheers and screams filled the room as two men were brought out onto the stage. Each had several sets of manacles, stacked atop one another.

Two men; familiar men.

Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley.

Opposite them were the Malfoys, waiting in the wings for something to happen. She hadn't even seen Malfoy arrive or his parents. They must have been in the area behind the stage, wherever the grand staircases led to.

Snape pressed back into Hermione, his arm around her shoulders. She didn’t get a chance to react, not as he gathered her close to head for the exit. They’d not been here longer than an hour, she hadn’t expected to leave so soon. Perhaps he hadn’t either, as he’d idled at Bellatrix’s arrival.

He hadn’t known.

They didn't tell Snape anything anymore.

They didn't have him on the guest list -- it wasn't a guest list, was it.

Hermione struggled to keep pace with him. The crowd thickened, as more Death Eaters and Snatchers appeared while she was tucked behind the vase. They seemed to crowd her, inward, crushing, intent.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, her voice gentle with worry.

“We need our third guest of honor!” Bellatrix sang like a command, high and screeched.

Hermione didn’t have a chance to say anything, not as several Snatchers descended upon her. Snape didn’t resist, didn’t try to stop them. He stood with cold worry which vanished in a moment. She didn't expect him to try, in all honesty. If it was the difference between her life or his, he'd always choose himself first. She accepted that as she watched his face go impassive as if he were bored. She was shackled and dragged to the front of the room, her white cloak lost in the crowd. Her slim, sweet shoe laid on the stage to her right, flipped so the sole was exposed.

She felt like whatever the opposite of Cinderella must have felt like. The magic spell had ended and she'd been carted up for execution.

She had suspected it, hadn't she?

That day at the Ministry when that girl, Bianca, when she had said how she expected Hermione to make a day of it. She should have her friends all around to watch her big moment.

Hermione strained against the manacles that sat four-wide across her arms, to limit her magic and movement in equal measure.

Her gloves at least provided some protection from the rub of the metal.

She couldn’t look at the crowd. The grim green light seemed so much brighter up here. Her manacles shivered in the cool of the hall. The screams had stopped, and her skin turned to gooseflesh between the slats of metal. A Snatcher, Scabior she recognized, stood behind her with his hand wadded into her hair. He’d been waiting for her. He had seen her behind the vase, he had been waiting for the right moment.

Waiting for this.

“We’re going to have a trial!” Bellatrix announced to the cheers and laughter of the crowd. “We’re here for some justice — each of these creatures has committed atrocities, to our kind or their own. Traitors never prosper, at least die with conviction!”

Hermione looked sideways, on her knees and shaking. She refused to look outward at the crowd. She didn't have to look outward, she could hear them cheer and jeer as they had for the girl in the cage. She should have seen this coming, she should have prepared. But what could she have done except stage an attack that would end in her own death?

As if this wasn't a slower death; the marriage, the gala, she was so stupid.

“The rules are simple — we have two Death Eaters eager to rejoin the ranks, and three possible candidates to help them ease back into the life of righteous persecution; three people they’d be eager to see die,” Bellatrix added with a catlike curl to her lip. “I shall make their case, then let them beg for their lives. Two of them die, one of them lives — to make sure the message of our mercy is clear.”

Hermione’s breath shook as she was yanked higher. Not enough to stand, nor kneel. She was hanging by the hank of her hair.

“First, we have a blood traitor!” Bellatrix waved a spindly arm at Percy. “Told us the location of the Order, like a good boy. Took, what was it dear, two minutes of Cruciatus? You cracked like an egg, sweet child — I’d be glad such a wretch isn’t part of our gene pool any longer.”

Percy shook as the Snatcher pressed a wand to his throat.

He spoke, garbled, pleas, begging, asking to be let go, begging for his life, begging to be let go, please, let me live.

Hermione felt thick tears roll down her cheeks. She refused to sob or to shiver. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth felt like they’d crack. She tried to switch her hearing off as if it were that easy. Her sets of manacles began to burn.

“Now, this one’s interesting — Oliver Wood, he was the one who put us onto the Mudblood!” Bellatrix gestured to Hermione. “Told us the Mudblood’s location, and the other blood traitor, the girl Weasley,” Bellatrix spat as if the name was enough to make her ill. “Why you’re the reason the Malfoys are here at all, aren’t you? You’ve been very good to us. I shall be sad to see you go, pet!”

The wand touched his throat and he began to scream, about how he hoped they’d all die, how he wanted to tear their hearts out himself.

Hermione refused to look at Wood.

Refused.

A wet thud sounded, she still didn’t look. Oliver appeared in her vision, blood drawn from the side of his head. He was yanked back up by the Snatcher who’d thrown him there, limp.

The manacles burned red hot, like a brand.

Hermione felt the slow slink of Bellatrix, who stood in front of Hermione with a slumped posture. She had danced and spun across the stage, until now. Her gaze met Hermione’s, blood caked around her mouth. Fresh, wet and coppery. It lined her lips and the cracks of her teeth, thick and so red it looked black in the green light.

“Or will the Malfoys want to right the wrongs performed on their family, by our darling widdle Mudblood?” Bellatrix’s voice was like a caress of seaweed in the black of the ocean. She reached out to grab Hermione’s cheeks, to raise her head. Scabior obliged as he lifted Hermione, so she could stand on uneven footing.

“This girl!” Bellatrix turned to look at the crowd as she screamed. “Sent my family away in the darkest of times. She destroyed parts of the Dark Lord, tried to tear apart everything we’ve worked so hard for. She’s a black spot on our values. But let's not forget that she’s Snape’s little whore now — isn’t that right pet? Perhaps she's learned her place!”

Hermione hadn’t reacted, not until that last comment. She wished she hadn’t, the defiant flex of her nostrils and the bite of her jaw. Her manacles had burned clean through the silk, sparks formed around the edges like iron in a forge.

“I had the misfortune of seeing the consummation — I’d kill you for that alone,” she spat in Hermione’s face, which she endured as she had no other option.

The crowd had followed each and every word that Bellatrix had said, up until that moment. If they made noise, it didn’t reach Hermione. Blood pounded in her head, around the nape of her neck and through her body.

As a wand jabbed into her throat, she gasped.

“Let my death count as two,” Hermione said, her voice level between cautious sobs. “Do whatever you want to me, just let them go — ”

Her hair yanked tighter and the wand disappeared.

The crowd began to cheer their names as if they were voting on who should win a prize. Bellatrix prowled the front of the stage. Whenever she’d pause in front of one of them, the crowd would cheer. She didn’t know if they were cheering for their death or their continued life, but it didn’t seem to matter. She searched her mind for a spell, for something she could go. Any magic she tried would sizzle into the metal, to the point where her silk gloves had melted away.

Thick red marks laced around her arms, into the nerves and muscles.

The cheering seized until it fell silent with the cut of Bellatrix’s hand through the air.

Hermione watched a body float across the ceiling, their face dragged and slewed against the glass.

Lucius stepped forward first. He paced the line of them with disinterest. He paused in front of Hermione, his finger and thumb pressed into the plush of her cheeks. After a long moment, he shoved her face aside, which pushed the taste of blood into her mouth. He ignored Percy entirely as if that wasn’t an option. Percy was a pureblood if Hermione were to guess. A traitor, no doubt, someone that the Malfoys hated, but still a pureblood.

Lucius killed Oliver without hesitation as if he were dismissing an empty plate from a table.

His body fell flat, at a strange angle given the manacles from his wrists to his shoulders.

Malfoy stepped forward now, his head bowed to his father as they passed. Lucius clapped Malfoy on the shoulder, something whispered, but they were too far away. 

Instead, she heard the strike of Malfoy’s boots.

Closer, closer. 

It was quick.

Percy fell.

He hadn’t even thought about it or paused to look at the man as he’d killed him. Hermione almost threw up but didn’t. She fought it down, her chest heaving with grief and relief, a swirl of survivor’s guilt baked into her blood.

Malfoy stopped in front of her, to crouch down. He grabbed her cheeks, the same as Bellatrix.

“If you believe your death is worth two of theirs, you’re mistaken,” Malfoy said, his voice icy. He had his wand pressed to his throat, as she had before — a performance. “I want you to be there when we kill the rest of the Order. I want you to see how little your efforts of banishing my family meant in the end.”

Hermione strained to get out of his grip, but he yanked her face harder.

“I want the knowledge that you are useless to sink in and then, perhaps, I will end your life.”

He shoved her away so hard she fell to the stone. She laid in Oliver’s blood, her eyes wide.

A scuffle sounded above her, though she couldn’t see what was happening. She was frozen, unsure she’d survived, unsure what had happened to the boys beside her.

Oliver was the reason she had been caught for evaluation. He had been the reason they had found her. It hadn’t been her carelessness.

A deeper, darker realization hit.

Percy had confessed the Order’s location?

“— kill her.”

“She’s the reason they were trapped in France for three years!”

“And she’ll be punished,” Snape snapped through her fog. “Two were killed, one leaves. As per your own rules.”

“I told you,” Bellatrix hollered to the crowd. “Snape and his little whore!”

She was yanked to her feet, blood on her cheeks from Oliver and whomever Bellatrix had been feasting upon. The manacles shifted and fell from her arms, though the thick bands of red remained. Her skin stuck to it in patches and tore. She couldn’t move her arms, not without pain laced along her nerves.

“It’s not as if she’s going anywhere,” Malfoy said, laughter in his voice. “If I change my mind, I can always go kill her later.”

Bellatrix hissed, though she allowed Snape to rush off with Hermione. She was buffered as they moved through the crowd. People laughed and pointed as if it were a talent show gone wrong.

Hermione remained half-aware as they rushed from the hall.

Up the stairs, through the wet, damp stone.

Up, up, up.

Hermione felt warm, too warm, and she wanted to be ill. Snape had his arm around her and his cloak wrapped the rest of the way. She rested against him, her lashes stuck shut from the blood and her mascara. Soon they were in a dank receiving hall, deep midnight laid out above them. She didn’t have a chance to take it in, not as Snape took her to Spinner’s End.

When they arrived, it was dark. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, though it wasn’t the lounge. Instead, it was the study beneath his home, stonework laid around them like a nest. He took several paces back from her and pivoted towards a display of mixed vials.

Hermione felt weightless as she landed on a desk behind her. Half of her thought Snape must have picked her up, but that couldn’t be right. She sat, shivering on the spot. She was going into shock.

“Your arms,” he said, distracted. “Have you used Essence of Dittany before?”

“The Order — “

“Arms,” Snape said, his voice tense. He shoved the vial of Dittany into her palm, cautious of how he touched her. She unscrewed the cap with shaky hands, her eyes locked to the man before her. He dropped several pieces of cotton beside her and paced away, his arms crossed and rage behind his eyes.

Hermione had used it before, thankfully. She gently dispensed some of it onto her skin just by her bicep. The adrenaline kept the pain from hitting, but the way the skin restructured itself hurt in a whole new way. The skin stitched itself back together, so tight and painful that she dropped the vial by mistake.

Snape caught it with a levitation spell, his hand in motion at the bottle. The spilled liquid flowed back into it and landed beside her.

It took five minutes for it to work through the curse that the manacles inflicted. The worst part was that they could have used manacles that suppressed magic altogether. Instead, they had used ones that took in the magic and heated. They used the defensive mechanism of witches and wizards against them, to wound them further.

If Snape hadn’t been there, she would have remained with the manacles. They could have tortured her further until the wounds cut through her arms altogether. She’d have died from that, instead of a Killing Curse.

“How many died?” Hermione asked in an empty voice. “At Craggle Street.”

“They went Friday around lunch. Miscommunication about the meeting times,” Snape dug through a small stack of drawers, in search of something. “Tonks and Proudfoot were there — the few people they had in hiding were moved to the school you scouted,” Snape spoke with clinical efficiency as if he’d prepared the answer.

As if it didn’t hurt that Tonks had died. Or Proudfoot.

“Did they — ”

“They took out the base with them, as was the agreed-upon strategy. I don’t know if any Death Eaters survived if they even breached the location. But they went down with the building — as was the protocol,” Snape laid several wet swaths of cloth beside her. “For the blood.”

Hermione cleaned her face in silence as she sobbed, unsure what she was crying about in particular. Oliver and Percy had died because of her. She had survived because she was useful to Snape and Malfoy. The jeers from the crowd lingered in her ears, about how she was Snape’s whore. Her stomach flipped over and over, her face downturned as she cried. 

She had no place to be upset; she had survived.

Snape worked in silence across from her as she wiped the blood away. He didn’t check on her, didn’t hug her or ask if she was okay. He wasn’t stupid enough to try any of that. It didn’t suit him, and it didn’t suit her. She didn’t know what to do, not as she wiped away the blood.

“Who’s blood was on Bellatrix?” Hermione asked in a groggy voice.

Snape looked at her, his brow raised.

“The blood,” she flashed the cotton. “She was covered in it.”

“The Dark Lord’s, if her word is to be believed.”

Hermione frowned at it, as she touched the edge of it. She went to reach for her wand — but panic seized her chest. She shoved the scraps of fabric into her pocket instead, blood-caked nails furrowed into the fabric.

“They have my wand.”

**Tuesday — 28th August, 2001.**

Hermione sat at Obscurus Books with her manuscript about fairies laid in front of her.

Penelope had said hello, and Hermione had obliged, but she felt empty. Strange. Like she shouldn’t be here like she should run into the forest and never come back. But no matter where she went, death would follow her. She had to at least try — to do better than she had the night before.

She had thrown herself in front of two men and saved neither.

She re-read the same line about fairies having venomous bites. Her eyes blurred over, and she was sure she’d gotten a concussion from the way Scabior had yanked her around. She had hit her head a few times. But she had no way to check any of that, even if she were inclined to.

Her wand had been left at the Lestrange Manor. Her wedding ring from Snape allowed her to return from Diagon Alley to Spinner’s End. He escorted her to Diagon Alley before he headed to the Burrow.

He had promised to tell the Weasleys about Percy. Not the details, not about how he’d begged for his life in a way that would haunt Hermione until she died herself. She wouldn’t ask how it went or send word herself. She didn’t know what she would say. She’d talk to them on Friday, when they met at the school Hermione had cleared. She had no way to send a Patronus, nor any way to Apparate to their home.

Snape refused to take her with him.

Hermione didn’t think he’d have to tell them. Molly had been watching the clock from the moment Percy went missing. But it was courtesy that someone put their worries to bed, even if it hurt. It was better to know for certain than to mourn someone for years, false hopes behind broken hearts.

She arrived home to emptiness, dark shadows laid across the walls.

**Thursday — 30th August, 2001.**

  
Hermione awoke to her usual fair of breakfast, and more unusual, her wand.

She snatched up the vine wood wand, to cuddle it to her chest. She felt magic surge through her fingertips as it rested in her grip, warm and familiar. She stroked the vine patterns along the length of it as if to make sure it was really hers.

No note appeared, no explanation. She looked over the tray to the eggs and bacon, accented with a stack of pancakes. There was always too much food, she never ate all of it. But her focus remained on her wand, excitement fresh in her heart. She checked over it with a hand wave, but it would be impossible to detect all the enchantments without someone else checking it first. She ignored her breakfast and rushed to Snape’s room, to knock on his door.

She felt stupid in her pajamas, standing outside Snape’s door with her wand clutched like a new kitten, gentle and affectionate.

He didn’t answer, not even to tell her to go away. She reached for the handle, but it grew hot to her touch, so much so that she jumped back with a yelp.

Fine.

Hermione risked an easy spell, _Lumos,_ and found that the light glowed brightly as it should. She ended the incantation and rushed back to her room.

It had been a day, if that, and she had felt so toothless. She used her wand to pack her bag and to change her clothes, in all the ways she restrained herself from because it was frivolous.

She spun and smiled until reality returned.

The reason she’d left the wand.

Her hands faltered, as she looked back to her wand. If she had kept it, or if she’d baited Malfoy, or baited Lucius…

If, if, if.

Hermione shoved her wand into her pocket and jogged downstairs to the lounge. She Apparated to work, to a place unaffected by everything else.


	14. Chapter 14

**Friday — 31th August, 2001.**

“There’s no meeting tonight,” Ron said, his hand wrapped tight around his mug of coffee.

Hermione had been so focused on work and her awful Monday that she’d not had much contact with the Order. She knew that Snape had passed on the word about Percy, but the Weasleys hadn’t reached out. She hadn’t tried to speak with them either, but it was a difficult thing to bring up.

She didn’t want them to know she had been there for it. She didn’t want to explain that she’d begged for his life and failed. She didn’t want them to know she’d been prostrated as Snape’s whore, pointed to and mocked, covered in blood —

It wasn’t about her.

She wanted to give them space to grieve.

“Mum’s been crying since he went missing. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t eat. Only got worse after Snape came to tell us,” he trailed off, a snort let out into the still air. “She knew, y’know? Told her we’d get him back.”

Hermione scrunched onto herself, her head dropped.

“Did you know?”

Hermione turned to look at Ron, her eyes wide.

Ron hadn’t looked at her. He was distracted by the lower levels of the store.

It was still Fred and George’s joke shop, though Ron worked alongside them. It was easier to maintain the brand, and Ron focused more on the back end. She had been impressed with him in truth, as he worked out the best times for sales and put forward deals with other stores. But the store was empty today, shadowed by the afternoon sun low in the sky. They had been closed since Tuesday. Their windows needed to be repaired, as a group of masked Snatchers had lobbed rocks and other nasty things through the windows.

There were enough enchantments to protect the wares, but…

They had flung body parts.

Hermione’s lips tightened into a fine line as she looked over the banister.

“Did you know, about the attack. You didn’t turn up last week,” Ron crossed his arms on the banister. “Didn’t even check-in.”

“No,” Hermione said, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. “I didn’t know. Snape told me, after.”

Ron’s jaw strained, his gaze fixed onto the space below. Deep red stains littered the floor, where the pieces of Percy had landed. It'd been enchanted with some sticking charm and they had tried several simple cleaning charms. But the blood remained like a tattoo on the pale brown wood. She looked elsewhere, at the joke products peppered with blood. They’d gotten most of it, but the cleaning charms could only do so much.

“Tonks and Proudfoot blew the place up,” Ron picked at his fingers, the peeled nail beds bleeding around the edges. “Teddy wasn’t there. He’s with Remus at our house, with mum. If you care.”

Hermione winced like he’d shoved his fist into her chest and strangled her heart.

Ron pushed away from the banister to look at Hermione. She expected anger, but all she saw was — nothing. Not sadness, not grief, just empty.

“Malfoy killed Percy,” he tipped his head to the side, to examine her face for a reaction. “And the papers are calling him a hero, returned from a kidnapping by the Order. Said a girl wiped their memories, sent them to France.”

Hermione looked away, but Ron caught her chin. Not hard or rough, just light, enough to turn her head back to face him. He brushed her hair behind her ear, the meat of his thumb against her curve of her cheek.

“Did you wipe their memory? Send them away?” He paused, his voice hoarse. “Like you did with your parents?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, shock rooted down to her stomach.

“I don’t care if you did,” he stepped closer, his head tipped to the side. “They were tryin’ to kill us. You did what you had to.”

Hermione broke into tears because it was easier than speaking. He pulled her close, to hold her against his chest. But the hug felt like a cold wash rather than warmth. She felt nothing except claustrophobic, as his hand reached for her head. It ached where he touched, the back of it still tender from where Scabior had yanked her across the floor.

“You should’ve told us,” he mumbled into her hair.

Hermione didn’t want to speak. She’d just put everything into further danger, and her mouth wouldn’t cooperate anyway. She was glad that the Order wasn’t going to have a meeting, not until they straightened out their new base at the abandoned school by Wales. She let Ron hug her because she didn’t know what else to do.

…

Hermione returned home to Snape and Malfoy in the kitchen, their voices quiet as they spoke.

Her skin turned to ice as she met Malfoy’s eye, though he looked at her unaffected.

As if he’d not whispered promises of her death to her face. 

_“If you believe your death is worth two of theirs, you’re mistaken. I want you to be there when we kill the rest of the Order. I want you to see how little your efforts of banishing my family meant in the end.”_

She saw his mouth open but she rushed for the stairs, to avoid the conversation altogether.

She locked her bedroom door and buried herself in blankets.

Someone knocked but she ignored it.

She counted her fifty Galleons, as Penelope was disappointed she’d not processed as many manuscripts that week. She didn’t realize that her pay could be docked for something she couldn’t help. The change in management had come with an influx of more manuscripts, but none were any good. Hermione couldn’t focus either, as she felt like a ghost wafting between rooms.

By seven o’clock her food arrived. There were extra desserts, a stack of beautiful turkey breast with steam vegetables and decadent gravy. She knew by sight, she’d had it before.

She didn’t touch it.

She hadn’t eaten since Tuesday, except for small deli sandwiches she’d bought from a store just outside of the Leaky Cauldron. She ate them between manuscripts. Her appetite vanished whenever she thought of Bellatrix or Scabior, the swarms of Death Eaters cheering for her death or her continued suffering, the blood, the blood, oh god, the blood — 

Hermione jumped as someone opened her door.

“Go away!”

She scrabbled for her wand, but it flipped away from her to the door.

“You’re needed.”

Hermione shoved herself out of her thick blankets, pressed against the wall beside her bed. She stared down Malfoy, who leaned in the door frame with a bored expression on his face. His gaze slid to the platter of untouched food then back to her.

“You should eat.”

And he vanished, the door clicked behind him.

She threw a pillow at the door. She considered throwing the food, but the mess it would make only hurt her. She had to eat, even if she didn't feel like it, even if eating was the last thing on her mind. She shoved some turkey slices and several beans into her mouth, enough that her cheeks puffed. Her blood ran quickly beneath her skin and her chest sore as she forced herself to swallow. She shook as she pulled on her sneakers, which she’d ditched when she’d climbed into bed.

She refrained from stomping down the stairs though she would have liked to.

Instead, she walked down with caution, unsure of what being ‘needed’ involved.

Snape and Malfoy stood in the lounge, though Snape looked more drawn. She’d not seen him much this week. She hadn’t expected to, but it was sad. He was to leave for Hogwarts tonight —

Oh.

Hermione felt a pang of worry as she realized she’d be here alone. She had survived because Snape had taken pity on her. She entered the lounge with hesitant steps, her arms crossed and her hands shaking.

Snape turned to look at her, pity marked his slim face. “I wanted to speak to you before I left,” he looked at Malfoy, uncertain as he turned to face Hermione.

“Yes, well, enjoy your teaching,” Hermione said with thick sarcasm.

Snape approached her, his hand extended towards her.

She hesitated but took it with gentle caution. He’d not given her reason to distrust him, even if he’d escorted her to that awful party on Monday evening. It hadn’t been something he’d expected, not that she could tell. He’d tried to sneak her out when he’d clued into Bellatrix’s plan.

She grew hot across her face and chest, as if she anticipated more from him, his touch, to taste him —

Snape drew his hand back as if she’d slapped him. He shot Malfoy a nasty look, which Malfoy looked at with distant calculation.

“I can’t have you at Hogwarts,” Snape said, his tone level. “Married quarters would be expected for you, and there’s hardly enough room for one person. We’d have to share a sleeping arrangement,” his hand flexed as he examined it, to tuck it into his pocket. “Eventually I fear you’d do something we’d both regret.”

Hermione gave a singular nod. She hadn’t expected to accompany him to Hogwarts, as they’d established before. 

“Draco will be living here with you.”

Hermione’s lips cracked apart as she gasped so hard she choked. She spluttered through her confusion, her hands raised and her teeth grit. “Sorry — no — ” 

“It isn’t my first choice either, Granger,” Malfoy snapped.

“Draco’s home in Britain was destroyed,” Snape said, his voice distant. “They’re working to rebuild it, to recover what they can. But Draco is required in Britain. His parents will remain in France until the building is complete.”

“Why not stay somewhere else?” Hermione snapped.

“It’s a favor on several fronts,” Snape said, his voice sharper around the edges. “One of which is for your benefit.”

Hermione’s brows jumped, her teeth exposed in a nasty smile. “Oh is it?”

“This house is warded and protected,” Snape looked around the room, which included her books that she’d shuffled around. “But there is more at stake here that I cannot take with me, or protect from my position at Hogwarts.”

Hermione turned pink around the edges, her chest tight. “Then I’ll move out.”

“With what money?” Malfoy laughed. “Did they finally give you a pay rise to _eighty_ Galleons a week?”

Hermione stared a hole through the floor, the heat in her face worse than before.

“You’re to stay here, Hermione,” Snape’s voice was soft compared to Malfoy’s, which struck her heart in a strange way. “If you aren’t at Hogwarts with me, or at my home here, you’re a target. And your status as my wife is the only thing keeping you alive.”

Malfoy smirked, silver glinted beneath sharp brows.

“I will check in, and see you at Order meetings,” Snape looked over the room, his head tipped to the side. “You may use my lab to assist in that regard. You’ve been wasting too much time.”

Hermione felt like he’d shot her through the heart with that. She didn’t look at him, not as he picked up his case.

Her hands flexed before she rushed forward, to wrap her arms around him. He stumbled back a step, the first time she’d ever felt his stance shift. He stood frozen beneath her crushing embrace, and she continued to hug him. She’d never hugged him, but it was the least she could do for him now. She lingered and drew back, the lightest peck to his cheek. The same one she’d given to any of the Weasleys when she’d said goodbye to them, or Harry — 

“Be safe, please,” Hermione said, her face a brilliant shade of red.

Snape looked like he might kill her as he stepped back, terror and anger mixed behind his eyes.

And he vanished.

The house felt strange and empty. Even with Malfoy beside her, in sleek black robes.

“That was disgusting,” Malfoy sneered, his teeth a fine line of white between pale lips.

Hermione shot a tart look at him, but the second she looked at his eyes, she was back on that stage. She rushed for the stairs, to return to her room. She didn’t speak to him further, she had nothing to say. Instead, she burrowed into her blankets, anxious. She hadn’t realized she’d adjusted to Snape’s presence, in that he’d be in the house alongside her. It made things easier, though it should have stressed her out. He was a spiteful man, cruel, but — he had to care, for everything he did was centered on Lily.

But he hadn’t told her about the Order, or Percy. Or Oliver, for the matter. She didn’t know how much he’d hidden about her. But he kept his distance and refused to exploit the easy path into her heart and bed. If he were a worse man, he’d have leaned into her touch and used her. But he didn’t.

She didn’t know if she should provide respect for basic decency, but the world she lived in was cruel and uncouth.

Her food vanished beside her bed. A mug of peppermint tea appeared, alongside a chocolate croissant.

She nibbled on the croissant with a book of love potions laid across her lap.

**Saturday — 1st September, 2001.**

Hermione didn’t come out of her room all of Saturday, except to use the bathroom. Her meals appeared and disappeared, with small bites taken when she felt brave. Her stomach had been unsettled since Monday night, and she couldn’t keep anything down without the image of Oliver or Percy laid out and —

She threw up onto her bed and grimaced.

She had been too brave.

**Sunday — 2nd September, 2001.**

Hermione willed herself downstairs, though it felt, unlike her home. She had never been comfortable here, not when Snape was here. In truth, she was even less comfortable now that it was Malfoy and her, alone.

But she didn’t see Malfoy downstairs. 

She had her pile of notes on the antithesis of love potions as if a straight flip of the recipe could negate her feelings for Snape. It wasn’t the end of the world, really, of all the numerous issues she had, it was a drop in a larger pool.

But she still had the rags she’d cleaned herself off with. She had Oliver’s blood mixed into it, but the cloth she’d cleaned her face with had the darker blood. She had kept them separate, as the hunt for Voldemort’s body was paramount.

She climbed down to the study with her books and her notes laid across her arms, though she’d not gotten changed out of her pajamas. She had expected Malfoy to be in the lounge, but he wasn’t. She wanted to make use of that freedom.

Cartoon cat print and an oversized Gryffindor shirt. That was her great fashion choice for this Sunday.

Snape was right.

She’d been wasting time and waiting for others. She had to make this happen for herself. She bore the constellation for three weeks. The only times she’d tried to remove them had been through brute force, where she’d pulled at them with her fingers. She had run several diagnostics, but not searched further.

She’d become complacent in her misery, as if she had done all that she could do.

The entire study had been cleaned, she noticed with mild amusement. All the potions he’d had in progress were gone. The books were put away, and the ingredients had been straightened out with mechanical precision. She dropped several dead flies into the toad enclosure, which made them panic for a chance at food.

She smiled to herself, her weight dropped onto the nearest table.

Her scrolls and books rolled, but she didn’t mind. She would organize them once she’d searched the room.

It was easier to look around now that it was clean. She ran her hands along the stone walls and searched for divots or secrets. Neither appeared to be there, which made her heart sink. She expected some strange, special passage to appear if she touched the right stone.

But with nothing of interest aside from the strange green light beyond the iron gate, she circled back to her notes.

A piece of parchment in sharp, severe writing laid on the table, with names of books that were on the shelf behind her. She pivoted to pull them out, one by one, her attention split between the books and the paper.

A flicker caught her attention.

The green light.

Hermione set the paper down as she stepped with light feet towards the grate.

She hesitated, aware this was something private. Snape hadn’t told her she couldn’t go in there, but the wards had done that for her. She peered around the side as if something new might appear.

“Granger,” a voice said, cool and soft. “What are you wearing?”

Hermione swiveled to see Malfoy, seated at the table beside her notes.

“Why are you here?” She snapped. She stood proud as if she wasn’t wearing a stained, torn Gryffindor shirt. She waved a hand to mend the tear by her hip, her cheeks as red as the shirt.

“I live here.”

“Why!” Hermione stalked over, to snatch her books away from his prying eyes.

Malfoy made a strange face as if she’d spoken another language. He rested his weight onto his forearms, which crossed onto the heavy wooden table in front of him. “We discussed this yesterday.”

“I find it strange,” she scoffed, high and cruel. “That you would want to live here. Isn’t it a little small for your tastes? Don’t you have a mansion?”

“We liquidated our properties during the war,” he said, his tone even. “And the market dipped considerably after, so it worked out for our benefit.”

Hermione didn’t recall asking, but of course, he’d find a way to spin it to be about his family's wealth.

“We’re more in the business of retail now,” he looked over her notes, which she pulled further away from him. His lips curled at the edges, cool amusement nestled in his features. “Ah yes, Stella Vinculum…”

Hermione flushed along her neck, her eyes squinted at him through the dark.

“Part love potion, park Dark Mark,” he pulled one book from her pile, for she couldn’t avoid him altogether. “Have you found anything?”

“Why do you care?” She tried to grab the book back but he leaned away, a hand extended to keep her at bay.

He stared at her for a tense moment until he slipped through her pupil, a knife through her vision. He saw her blush and shudder at Snape’s touch, how she’d curled closer, wanted more — his expression became unreadable, distant.

Hermione sat down, her fists formed on the desk.

“It’s stupid,” he said, his voice level. “The original purpose of the connection.”

Hermione had expected him to pull her apart. Instead, he flicked open the book. She felt like she was back at Hogwarts as if he’d not killed her friend days ago. She swallowed sharply as she refused to sit.

“Snape told you, I imagine?”

Hermione tucked her hair behind her ear. She approached, slowly, tentative caution in her attention. "He spoke in loose terms," she was waiting for him to grab her by the throat, to throttle her.

“The Dark Lord used it to keep a Trace on the loved ones of his followers,” his lips twitched at the corner, his eyes sharp in the dark as he read. “Of all the people I’ve known, two had no match.”

“No match?”

Malfoy’s throat flexed as he considered her. “Bellatrix didn’t have one because Voldemort was her sole connection,” his lips pressed into a fine line. “And Snape. He didn't even have a constellation before all this business,” his lips twitched, a flash of pride was snatched away by cruelty. 

Hermione frowned at him.

“Any time he was touched for it, it showed nothing. Not a single sign of life — I suppose that’s changed now.” Malfoy adjusted in his seat as his gaze flashed at her arm.

Hermione tucked her arm beneath her chest, though that reminded her how bony she’d become.

“It was rare for the Dark Lord to use it, he wouldn’t endure crying wives or children for long...“

“Children?” Hermione’s stomach dropped.

“The link works for love in all capacities, familial, platonic, romantic,” Malfoy waved a hand at her. “Anyone you may feel connected to on a level that can be manipulated,” Malfoy drew his finger along the page as he searched the index. “I realize now it’s just a malleable piece of tracking magic. Rather stupid, isn’t it, the Dark Lord using peoples’ love as a weapon.”

“Who were you connected to?” Hermione asked without thinking.

Malfoy’s lips formed around his answer as he considered it. His gaze lingered on her forearm, then her face. “My mother.”

Hermione didn’t press him further. Of the month or so she’d seen him, this was the closest to pleasant he had been. She hadn’t anticipated it, but she accepted what little information he had to offer her.

Hermione hadn’t paid much attention to Malfoy. It was difficult to now, given she felt the grip on her face and the way he’d glared at her. Her chest ached as she met his eye across the table, so much so that she had to shift away from him altogether.

“Malfoy..?”

Malfoy didn’t look up at her. His hand was framed over his mouth as he read, his attention fixed on the text.

Hermione picked at her fingers as she continued to read. She worried the question around in her mouth as if it would be easier to say if she thought deeper on it. She was left with an anxious energy that stilled her tongue and sped up her heart.

“Why did you let me live? On that stage.”

Malfoy’s lashes fluttered as he tilted his head, just enough to meet her eye. He let his hand drop, to cross his arms and stare her down.

“You could have killed me — ”

“Even if I had, Percy would have killed himself within a month.”

Hermione boggled at him, her hands crushed together towards her chest. “You don’t know that.”

“He betrayed his family. He told me everything about the Order, Craggle Street, the passcode, everything.”

“Then why did they attack during a meeting.”

Malfoy arched a brow at her.

“So you told them the correct location but the wrong time,” Hermione’s lips narrowed down to a fine point, her eyes wide and glossy.

Malfoy stared her down, his arms framed on the desk. “I knew you’d found a location for the innocent — ”

“Tonks died,” Hermione shouted, her voice unnaturally calm for how angry she felt. “And Proudfoot.”

Malfoy kept stiff and stern, his face downturned as he continued to read. He picked up one of her sets of notes to examine her writing as if he didn’t understand her script. She blushed around her ears, given that the sentence he was reading was merely the date, and the name of the potion. It was hardly something to misconstrue. 

“Do you even care?”

“Do you expect me to?” Malfoy said, eerie calm in his voice. He tore half her notes off without another word, to fold it up and tuck it into his pocket. He snapped the book he’d been reading, to throw it into the pile Hermione had been reading. He left, no fanfare. Had he expected her to be thankful he’d killed three people rather than more?

He shouldn’t have had to kill anyone.

If anything, he should’ve killed her on that stage, with the screams in her ears and the blood on her face. At least her death could have meant something.

Hermione remained buried in her notes on the Stella Vinculum, her chest sore as she sobbed through her reading. She was so tired of crying. There was no light in the room, no sense of time, and so it came as a surprise to her when she realized it’d been eight hours of dedicated reading.

She dug through the books that Snape had recommended for her. One stood out, which she picked out.

_‘Obscuration and Other Practical Preclusions.’_

She left the books on love potions and potions reversal in favor of the book on Occlumency. She took to the stairs with an arch to her back and a weight on her shoulders.


	15. Chapter 15

**Sunday — 3th September, 2001.**

Hermione had adjusted to the loss of Ginny in her life as a roommate. Somehow, she’d filled the gap with Snape. Now she had to shift a third time to accept that Malfoy would be here, whether or not she was happy about the arrangement.

Unlike Saturday, she was left alone all Sunday, then Monday. The week sped by as she was buried in books about love potions and of Dark Arts. She didn’t linger on the latter so much, but she needed to understand the creation of a Dark Mark to reverse the nature of her love potion. The bulk of it was localized in her silver marks, she gathered. It was either a slow secretion or a permanent enchantment, to make the wives more malleable to those they married.

She didn’t tell Ginny about Oliver. She hadn’t thought to, didn’t think she needed the grief atop the rest of it. Tonks, Proudfoot, Oliver, and Percy were confirmed dead in the paper on Wednesday, with claims that they had led an unsuccessful attack on a wing of the Ministry. They said that the four of them ran to hide in Blackwall, and that they blew up the building when cornered. Hermione read it with incredulous disgust, as Malfoy provided his account. He had been brought on as an Auror, in title alone. She couldn’t picture him actually participating in the work within the Ministry.

It did, however, give him a license to kill with a wider margin of absolution.

When Hermione wasn’t buried in her efforts to find an anti-affection elixir, she worked on wards for the school. It was laid bare at the moment, with nothing but a wide disillusionment on one wing. The magical signature they’d picked up hadn’t been explained yet, as to why it had landed on the Order’s radar. But she prepared a list of spells to execute and saw herself there Thursday evening. She didn’t go inside to see those who had been moved there.

She walked the wide circle around the Muggle school, her wand in motion and her brow set. By ten o’clock she returned home to an empty house. Her food arrived shortly after, which she ate out of necessity. She’d not been able to eat much of anything since the stage, the smell of blood and the feeling of fingers pried through her hair and —

She cried, as she often did. But she’d learned to work around the tears, to work through them.

**Friday — 7th September, 2001.**

By Friday morning she felt lost in a fog.

Diagon Alley flourished with people, bright smiles, wide swaths of bags, laughter. 

Nothing had changed on the outside. But she had. Over and over, like the same piece of copper reforged on repeat, as if she couldn’t remember what she had been before.

And the world continued on as if it was ignorant to the deaths of four innocent people at the hands of those in charge. She had no one to report to, no one to confess to. Instead, she had to walk around with the information like a stone in her throat. She would choke before it dislodged, it seemed.

Work pressed on as it always did. She read manuscripts, though they’d increased in volume since the new owner had taken over.

It flashed by before her eyes, papers upon papers, most of it useless. Drivel, the same stuff repeated, copies of copies, an endless stream of slush. She tossed most of the manuscripts away and spent the last hour of her shift with a book on constellations slapped across her desk.

About the reason behind the shift in constellations.

Hermione would never have slacked in the past. But the increased workload at work hadn’t seen her any further compensation. She was expected to process more manuscripts in one day that she used to roll through in a week. The demand for more work to be finished without any recognition wore her down, like a piece of wood buffed to nothing. She was a pile of sawdust in her threadbare office, her cactus brown and chipped around its edges.

By six o’clock, she was back at Snape’s house with fifty Galleons. Penelope had said something about something, but Hermione hadn’t paid attention.

She rushed upstairs to her room, with the wide curtains and soft cushions and face laid down. She ignored the food that arrived and the yowl of her stomach.

Something had to give soon, or she’d — she didn’t know what she’d do, in all honesty.

A knock on her door woke her up; she’d not realized she’d fallen asleep. She rushed to her feet, her wand in one hand and her robes in the other. 

Snape stood outside, his arms rested behind his back. He looked over her once before he pivoted to walk downstairs.

Hermione rushed downstairs, confusion painted across her face. “Why are you here?”

Snape turned to shoot her an edged smile. “I’ve not been to the Order’s new location yet.”

Hermione looked at his arm as he extended it to her. It shook ever so slightly, but she didn’t linger on it. She accepted it without hesitation, though she felt no more at ease than when she was alone. She checked him once before she Apparated, to ensure that he was still and focused. Once they landed in the thick of the forest just beside the school, he shifted away from her.

“It’s a slight walk,” she gestured towards the school which sat on the horizon. “I wasn’t sure where the anti-Apparition wards began.”

Snape looked thin around his face, thinner than usual. His nose made the difference, as it jutted further than the rest of his face. She watched him for as long as he allowed, as he began to walk towards the school. Her gaze trailed him, the gentle shake in his hands which he folded in front of him, away from her sight.

Hermione rushed after him, his pace quicker than she liked. “Are you well?”

“As I told you,” he said, his voice thin. “My health is my own.”

“Did they hurt you?” She said, no hesitation in her question. “Because you took me away, before — ”

He waved a hand, to silence her.

“Thank you,” she said, unsure if he’d accept it. “For saving me from Bellatrix.”

Snape didn’t say anything. She hadn’t expected him to.

Hermione dropped her chin, her hands wound together as she lingered in her worries. She had thought about the night, about how he’d tried to pull her away, tried to keep her from the Snatchers. Not enough to succeed, but enough for her to have noticed. It meant something, even if it was the same thing he’d afford any other ex-student from the Order. She had been so wrapped up in the mounting deaths of the evening that she hadn’t paused to think about how Snape had seen to her injuries, how he’d half-carried her out of the venue.

How he’d set her on the desk and used more Dittany than she’d ever owned to fix her arms. It was expensive for how many leaves it took to create, and the care with which was required to create it. She still had thin white scars around the edges, where the manacles had burned the longest. They ran like thread-like stripes along her arms from her wrist to her shoulder. But she still had use of her arms, and she was alive.

“May I call you Severus?”

Fear-wide black eyes turned to her like she’d asked him to kill her.

“It’s better than Sevvy, isn’t it?”

Severus — the name felt heavy to use as if she weren’t supposed to. Severus, her husband. Severus, the man who wanted less than nothing to do with her. Severus, a man she trusted for the sheer fact that he hadn’t used her in all the ways other girls had been used through the Marital Clause.

The school approached, wide and empty. She could see the entrance hall and the half-fallen walls on the east side. She worried her fingers together as they closed the gap. If there were wards here to protect against them, they’d soon find out. She drew out her wand and held it aloft as if to anticipate an attack.

But they got close enough to feel a wash of wards. It rippled around their silhouettes and settled just as quick. She shook her head as if water had gotten stuck in her ears. Severus pushed ahead, not waiting for her as he pressed forward. He didn’t have his wand out as she did, and instead used the flat of his palm to detect the traces of magic. She kept her wand out, anxious more than mistrustful of him. But it took only a minute before they found their way to an old English classroom, designated because it had rows of old books and posters about tenses.

Remus wasn’t there, which made her stomach drop.

The Weasleys sat in one corner, minus Arthur, Molly, Bill and Fleur. Doge and Jones looked visibly whiter around the edges as if they had been put through the wringer on repeat. Luna was there, which made Hermione’s heart flip in her chest, alongside Neville and several other Gryffindors from the years above and below Hermione. The ranks looked somehow healthier for these changes as if they’d gathered strength through their loss.

Hermione locked eyes with Ginny, who’d she’d not seen for three weeks. Not since their apartment had been torn apart, not since she’d married Snape first.

Had it been three weeks? It felt like years.

She rushed forward to hug her, tighter than she could bear. Her arms felt like they’d split along the seams, but she endured it for Ginny’s sake. Luna floated over with her arms outstretched, a missing tooth that had been replaced by one shaped out of rose quartz.

“Luna,” Hermione said, her voice breathy. “What — ”

“Oh, I got punched,” she smiled as if it were funny. “I was at a bar in Germany, and a man stepped on a dwendlesnatch. I shoved him, to save the dwendlesnatch. He didn't see the heroics of it,” she waved a hand at her face. “I thought it was rather pretty, don’t you?”

Hermione grimaced. It was pretty, eclectic, and somehow very Luna.

“Was the dwendlesnatch okay?”

“It died,” Luna said, her voice grew severe. “But I saved its family.”

Ginny smiled as if she’d not heard anything Luna had said, her gaze fixed on Hermione instead. “Don’t let mum see you.”

Hermione’s blood pressure spiked, as Ginny picked up her hands.

“You’ve been eating, haven’t you?”

“Oh, I have been,” Hermione blushed around her ears. “Work’s just been hectic, we got a new owner, I’ve not met them yet, but there are so many more manuscripts, and they’ve been working me twice as hard — “

“And paying you for it?” Ginny said, her voice a hard line through Hermione’s prattled speech.

Hermione tugged her wrists back as Ginny eyed the silver thread of a scar around her wrist.

“Why’ve you got scars on your wrists, Mione?” Ginny asked, her voice low.

“It’s nothing,” Hermione said, stricter than she meant. She thumbed her forearms, her arms crossed in front of her. “I promise, I’m fine.”

Ginny and Luna stared at Snape, who had taken to sitting at the table they’d put into the center of the room. His gaze was fixed on the window as if looking for something.

Ron approached the front of the room, flanked by Kingsley. Hermione hadn’t realized Kingsley had arrived. She had been too busy with Ginny and Luna.

Hermione moved across to sit beside Severus, with Ginny to her right. She didn’t acknowledge him beyond this proximity. Of all the people in the room, he made her feel the most secure. She didn’t have time to examine that impulse deeper. 

“Right,” Ron said with his best attempt as a leading voice. “Things’ve changed.”

A mumble of dissent swirled around the room but died just as quickly.

“We’ve lost people,” he pressed on, his hands rigid by his sides. “I lost my brother, Remus lost his wife, we’ve all lost children, parents, friends, loved ones — and it’s not improved, not with patience or with caution.”

Hermione didn’t like the sound of this one bit.

“We know where a large group of Death Eaters meet, in the north.” He looked as if he’d read a book on confident in leadership and was trying to hit all the bullet points. “Kingsley thinks we can corral them, capture them — lock the building down. No one has to die… But they need to be put out of action.” He kept his gaze mechanically rounded, to hit everyone in the room. He kept his head high, his posture open and his mouth stern.

“No one has to die?” Hermione said, her voice shaken to her throat. “People are dying — we lost four people, it would have been more if they’d arrived at the right time, or if they’d not torn Craggle Street apart on their way out.”

The room shifted as if their focus split from Ron to Hermione. She could see his gaze harden, but she didn’t back down.

“What do you suggest, Hermione?” Ron asked, his arms crossed over his chest. Defensive, withdrawn. He’d not read his leadership books closely enough.

“That we fight,” Hermione leaned on her elbows, to peer around Snape.

“That’s what I said.”

“You want to catch them like they’re slugs for a potion later, and hope that they don’t break out,” Hermione said, her voice tight. “While they kill us like pests the first chance they get.”

“So you want us to, what, kill them on sight?”

“No,” Hermione withdrew, her head angled down. “I’m just saying, we either need to address the Ministry or appeal internationally, to someone who could help — ”

“No one’s coming to help us, Hermione,” Ginny said, her voice sharp from her side. “And the only way we’re gonna clean the Ministry out is by removing their power externally.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hermione rolled her eyes, though she wished she hadn’t. “If the Ministry is skewed to side with the Death Eaters due to their connection to the group, anything we do will be seen as an act of terrorism. You saw what they did, with Craggle Street — they made it sound like we were against the law. It makes it impossible for us to act without a hammer hanging above our heads.”

“Then what do you suggest, Hermione?” Kingsley asked, his voice the only one that remained neutral through their discussion. He was still embedded into the Ministry, kept in the loop of all the happenings. With Proudfoot’s death, his distance from the Order became impossible.

Not that the Order ever used the intel they received. They just piled it, higher and higher, until they could point to the reasons they were dying without any actions to counter it.

“We should focus down on finding Voldemort’s body,” Hermione said, her voice level. “From my understanding, his continued use as a method of creating and connecting the Dark Marks is a large portion of the Death Eaters’ edge over us.”

“We’ve tried, Hermione.” Ron ran a hand through his hair, tension in his smile. “But we can’t keep putting our time into something like that — we have to strike back and hope that we find him through those attacks.”

Hermione sank into her seat. She didn’t want to be the one to tell them that their ‘strikes’ meant nothing to the Death Eaters. Their names alone gave it away, as they were eager to approach death in the name of a greater good. They couldn’t win if they killed them or fought them. They had the numbers and the backing of the Ministry. They’d kill themselves against the shape of them, the sharp edges and the masks.

They’d beat themselves against the wall of death and decay, and die.

And the Death Eaters would recline in their blood and drink their tears. They were honed for the suffering and tragedy. The Ministry left them to do as they pleased, as it kept the might of magic at the forefront of the public’s mind. The separation of Muggleborns and the rest of the magical world would be their legacy, one that Hermione hoped that future generations would look back on with distaste instead of admiration.

Victors were the heroes, regardless of the acts it took to ascend.

Before Hermione left, she enacted a series of wards to protect the makeshift sleeping quarters. She helped see to the plumbing and piled clothes and toiletries into a specific corner. She had saved almost five hundred Galleons of the total three thousand — but they needed toilet paper, food… And these people had exhausted their funds. They’d never ask, so she didn’t either. She left them, packed in small canvas tote bags with suggested ages and what were in each bag.

A Muggleborn couple with a magical daughter were in tucked in one corner, asleep. Another girl with a missing arm and thick bite marks around her throat sat unmoving in another corner, her eyes fixed to her book. 

Hermione searched for Abigail and saw her asleep with her brother in a cot. 

The rest of the shapes and faces were unfamiliar to her.

Hermione arrived back to Spinner’s End no better for the trip. The meeting proceeded much as they always did, with the only difference being that Ron and Kingsley oversaw the discussion instead of Remus. Although it didn’t feel much different, Remus had never been a leader. He’d just defaulted to the role as one of the few original Order members. Hermione wasn’t sure if he’d remain active, given the loss of Tonks.

Severus had gone back to Hogwarts. He’d not said goodbye, hadn’t lingered or backed her up. She didn’t really care as much as she felt she should. No one ever listened to her anyway, it wasn’t a new feeling to her. She wasn’t tired, unfortunately. She had napped before the meeting, and though she was bone-deep tired, she wasn’t mentally tired.

She walked through the kitchen to the cupboard and pressed open the door.

And all she heard were screams.

Hermione froze, her hand pressed to the frame of the cupboard. It swung inward, into an indent on the wall behind it. Her fingers picked at the edge of the cupboard, her eyes unfocused into the black abyss below. She couldn’t hear anything except for the screams. They seemed familiar, guttural.

It took her a long moment, but she willed herself downward. The screams alternated, from loud and terrified to low and animalistic. As if two people were screaming, but they alternated.

Then, worse than the screams was the absolute silence. It felt as if something had sucked all the sound out of the house. She took each step with careful precision, her chest tight and her hands shaky. Each time the silence swelled she stopped, the only sound in her head her rough heartbeat. She walked, slower than she usually would.

The light behind the iron gate flickered brightly as the screams rose.

Then the screams died as did the light.

Malfoy was on her in seconds, a hand on her throat. 

She knew it was him, as he slid into her mind with clinical ease. He sieved through her memories for nothing specific, touched the edges of her memories, the meeting with the Order, the switch from Snape to Severus, the reduced pay, the longer hours. His grip tightened on her throat until she managed to raise her hand, her nails dragged across his face.

He pushed her away to save his vision, and she managed to catch herself on the rough stone wall. Her back scraped along with her hoodie not enough to protect her from the impact.

“Who’s screaming?” She wheezed, at least thankful she’d landed on her feet.

“Get out.”

“Are you torturing someone?” She asked knives in her voice. She moved closer to him, to shove at his chest. 

He’d not expected her to shove him, given how he stumbled. He didn’t make the same mistake again, as he anticipated her next shove. There was a glint of silver as he narrowed his vision on her, no longer gentle — if he had ever been gentle with her. He spun her with ease as if to make sure she knew how light and gentle he’d been before. Now, she felt crushed against the rough stone wall of the lower potions wing, the study that Severus had told her she was allowed to use.

And it’d been taken from her.

“You heard screams,” he said against her ear. “And thought it was a good time to come down?”

“Who do you have?” She asked, his weight so heavy against her that she couldn’t breathe deeply enough. Her vision swam, but not before he’d Apparated them back to the lounge upstairs. She couldn’t stumble forward, given he had a grip on her arms and a hand on her throat. She swallowed against his palm, her head rolled back because of the pressure.

“No one you need to worry about,” he said against the shell of her ear. “Stay out.”

And then he was gone, one step, two. She turned to glare at him, though he remained long enough for her to glare at him.

Soundless, effortless.

Hermione rushed over to the cabinet, but it was shut. She pushed on it and it failed to move. Any attempt to Apparate downstairs fizzled, and she couldn’t decide if she should stage a rescue or not. Her stomach turned, over and over. It was someone being kept behind the iron gate with green lights. It must be. The lights flickered, the wards — she hadn’t been able to check, but they hadn’t been in the main section of the study.

There was nowhere else for them to hide.

Perhaps he’d kidnapped an Order member. Molly, or Remus, one of the people who’d not turned up to the meeting.

But Snape had said he was willing to work with the Order. That was the only reason she complied with his family’s return to the Death Eaters, for the sake of intel. Except that Malfoy had become more like smoke than air since he’d been here. She couldn’t see a clear shape of him, and any time he came close, she felt choked by his presence. 

Hermione sank to the floor in the cramped study, leaned against the disarray of books she’d left unsorted.

She listened for the screams but they never came.

Her gaze slid across the study, in search for a clue of who he had downstairs.

It was much the same as it had been when she’d last been in here, but several papers had appeared. She hadn’t noticed them earlier, but as she reached for them her eyes narrowed at the handwriting.

A few pieces of parchment had been set atop the pile with a note from Severus. He’d duplicated some of his personal notes since returning to Hogwarts. She hadn’t had a chance to ask him why he was so thin, or if he was okay. He’d not given her a chance. She doubted he’d come to Spinner’s End again before their next meeting, and her time with the Order couldn’t be spent in his pocket. They already judged her for her mild softness towards the man, though she hadn’t a chance to explain it.

She didn’t want to worry anyone, really.

She was fine.

Her night proceeded as a series of notes on anti-affection elixirs along with proposed methods of removing a Dark Mark. She cross-referenced each note with her own, though nothing seemed to match up in a useful way. 

No one had been successful in removing the mark, not even those who removed the limb altogether. The mark would appear, higher and higher. If a Death Eater lost their forearm, it’d move to their bicep. If it couldn’t linger on their bicep, it’d move closer to the heart. If it reached their torso, the black ink would spread until it was in all of their veins, and they’d turn to charcoal and tar. She thought of the photos of the Death Eaters from France, who had been slaughtered.

Hermione furrowed her brows as she examined some handwritten notes on the matter from Severus who’d provided notes on how he’d altered her dose of Stella Vinculum.

It wasn’t all of it, she realized with quick eyes. He had omitted something in the process.

**Saturday — 8th September, 2001.**

Hermione sat at her small white desk, tucked into the corner of her room. She hadn’t used it since she’d first moved into the house. Her bed had become her default workspace, and if not her bed, the floor downstairs. It wasn’t practical, and so she forced herself out of the warm covers and into her workspace.

_“You’ve wasted enough time.”_

She had.

Her weekend was spent focused on the idea of the removal of a Dark Mark. If the mark was linked to her affection for Severus, she could remove that from her with the removal of the mark.

Her gaze narrowed to her notes. She looked up, around her room, nerves bundled in her chest.

She rushed out of her room, her hair in a rough bunch at the base of her neck. She untangled it with her fingers as she paced, round and round.

The Order wanted to find Voldemort’s body, that was their repeated mantra. There were no known leads on the location of it, except that Bellatrix would have an idea of where it was. They doubted that even with heavy torture that they could elicit a response from her — not that The Order would sanction torture for the sake of information. But Voldemort’s physical body was able to produce new blood. They must have been maintaining the corpse as if it were expected to come back to life, even though there was no conscious mental activity possible in it. If there were, they’d have transferred him long ago. There wouldn’t have been such a long gap between the war and now.

After her frantic strut around the makeshift study, Hermione darted into the kitchen.

As her hand touched the cupboard door, a hand caught her shoulder. Her throat tightened as he pulled her back, but she shoved his hand away before he pushed her any further. She didn’t much like how he invited himself into her space as if he were out to do right by her. All he did was make her ache, her head and her back.

There was something guarded in his eyes, as he flexed his hand and allowed her space.

“I hope you weren’t busy.”

Malfoy’s face fell, stuck between frustrated and unwell. “Did you need something from down there?”

“I needed to ask you something,” she said, her voice decisive. 

“What?” He said, his voice tight.

“Are you really here to help the Order?” She stared up at him, impassive. She had to wonder if he had the house under surveillance or a specific ward to detect if she were approaching the study.

Malfoy’s brow flexed, his head tipped to the side. “I’m here to put an end to the war.”

“A mercy killing,” Hermione said with a weak laugh. “I need to know if you’re actually going to help to get rid of the Death Eaters. Your display at the Lestrange Manor was an attempt to maintain cover — wasn’t it?”

Malfoy’s gaze dropped to her feet before he locked eyes with her, silver against chocolate. There was a slow tension in him as he watched her as if a spring was wound tight behind his tongue. But he removed that tension, that anger, and let it melt into something far softer.

She preferred him angry.

“I hadn’t realized you would be one of the people on-stage,” he spoke in a metered, measured way. “We weren’t told much, just to expect a test of loyalty.”

Hermione’s lips twitched, though she kept herself quiet.

She hadn’t looked at Malfoy much since the night he’d approached her to help with the Stella Vinculum, to reverse and polarize it so that she wasn’t beholden to Severus’s touch. She worked her fingers through her hair, as if to soothe herself as she drew her attention away from the flutter of panic between her breastbone and spine.

“I didn’t mean what I said to you,” he said, his tone withdrawn. “Not entirely.”

“So you believe I’m useless?” Hermione said, her voice dripped with anger.

Malfoy stared at her in drawn silence, the initial rush of anger and connection now lost. He arrived with force and cruelty and left before it melted. She had barely seen him since he’d taken Severus’s place in the house. She still didn’t understand how his presence was a favor instead of a punishment.

“I’ve been thinking about Bellatrix, and Voldemort,” Hermione interlocked her fingers in front of her, her gaze narrowed up at him. “Severus trusts you, and I’ve been compliant thus far — ”

Malfoy snorted.

“I haven’t told anyone about you,” she said, restrained anger in her tone. “Or your family. Not about your disappearance, or about your return. I’ve done right by you, haven’t I?”

“Your point?”

Hermione licked her lips apart, her thick braid unraveled. She felt it slide across her shoulders and back, shaken loose from her pacing and fidgeting. “You’re trying to find Voldemort, aren’t you? To undo the link between your Mark, your family… You’re trying to break clean away?”

Malfoy raised a brow at her as if to repeat his question; what was her point.

Hermione wanted to shake him, for how uncooperative he was. “You want to be free, don’t you? As much as anyone else?” She sighed through her nose, uncertainty dripped from her gaze.

“I don’t think everyone wishes to be free,” he tipped his head to the side, a glance passed over her, from her right forearm to her left. “Some crave the subjugation.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Hermione shook her head, her nose wrinkled at the thought.

“Then why did you submit yourself to a Death Eater?” His teeth flashed in the dark of the kitchen. She feared he might latch to her throat and tear her to pieces. “The known whore to Severus Snape — fallen Mudblood from her peak at Hogwarts, brilliant witch with a bright career ahead of her, Head prefect, Head Girl — all that, and you rushed for the wedding arches at the first provocation.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Malfoy snapped back at her, as he stepped towards her. If he expected her to flinch, she didn’t. “I had expected you of all people to run — ”

“Where would I have run to?” Hermione raised both brows, her arms crossed as if to hide her scars. “France?”

“Anywhere. You’re smart enough to best me in most classes and can’t even get around something as simple as a Ministry summons?” Malfoy gestured wide. “You could have run anyway, but you chose to run into the arms of a Death Eater.”

Hermione’s expression of determination faltered, she set brown eyes fixed on his face in the shadows. “Why do you care so much what I chose to do?”

He laughed, louder than she’d liked. It hit her in the chest and across the face as he’d lashed out of her.

She remained focused on him, her eyes sharp in the dark of the afternoon sun. Autumn had arrived and the house was drenched in darkness.

“Are you jealous?” Hermione asked, her voice eerie and thin. She didn’t think he was, but then again he was fixated on her position beside Snape.

“Jealous, of you? Or of Snape?” He smirked through his discomfort, the space he’d stolen from her now offered back. He stepped away, once, twice, angled away from her.

But he didn’t stop staring at her.

Malfoy looked at her with the same look he had in her Sixth year, that sick dog look where he wanted her to tear him apart. He kept the same sneer and the sharp gaze fixed down at her as if he expected her to do something. But she remained impassive and all that moved between them were their chests and eyes.

And then she turned, away from him, from the kitchen. She fetched her wand and her shoes, and her thickest cloak.

It was Saturday afternoon, and she had no reason to be at the house if he was.

She went to Diagon Alley, aimless and idle. She didn’t shop often for herself, refused to waste money, but she went to Flourish and Blotts to get a book on magical forensics along with another book on the topic of magical genealogy. The book purported to use mild blood magic to create a genetic trace on a bloodline, with the cooperation of those involved.

If she could get Malfoy to work with her, she could use Bellatrix to track Voldemort; all she needed was willing blood from the woman. If they could tap into her constellation, they could track Voldemort's body through her.

As if that wasn’t an impossible feat.

She arrived back after eight o’clock and went straight to her room. A massive serve of ice cream and roast sat beside her bed with flowers. She ate with infrequent attention as she transcribed the most useful sections of the genealogy book. She didn’t need all the meanings behind names or the provided histories of pureblooded families. She had flicked to the Malfoys for her own amusement, but half the information was in French. She wouldn’t know any of them, as she’d not ever really spoken to people from France except for Fleur.

She noted the names down, however. 

It may have been worth asking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Wednesday — 19th September, 2001.**

  
The days leading up to her birthday had been the same as any other day. She saw Malfoy on occasion, though he avoided her eye and refused to speak to her. Not even if she said hello. She had replayed their conversation, about how he’d expected her to run, how he’d called her bright, recalled her achievements — how had he known she’d become Head Girl? — or how he’d pointed out his expectations of her. As if she'd fallen short of all that he wanted of her.

She couldn’t bring herself to care.

The other matter was how he’d said he hadn’t spoken truthfully on the stage to her. She labored on each part of what he’d said; about how she overestimated her worth; about how he’d make her watch the Order die; about how he’d show her how useless she was.

None of it endeared her to him. He spoke to draw blood from her, to watch her squirm and to cry. And so they avoided one another in equal measure. She kept away from the study unless she saw him leave in dark robes and his Death Eater mask.

Snape hadn’t attended the last Order meeting for more than two minutes, where he’d told them that they had resumed the use of Unforgivable Curses on students. That he couldn’t attend every meeting, as the school would become suspicious. He didn’t speak to Hermione at all during those two minutes, so she watched him arrive and leave with measured sadness.

The Weasleys didn’t coddle her, except for how Ron and Fred would approach her to touch her hand or check her for injuries. Visibly, the ones on the skin, the easy ones to tackle. Ginny and Luna kept light and amused, even as the Daily Prophet spoke on several Muggleborn children who had been found dead in the Forbidden Forest after they went exploring.

Hermione didn’t cry until she’d gotten home.

But the days trudged on.

Until her birthday.

She awoke with the same cautious optimism, her eyes spun around as she made sure that everything was the same as she had left it. A small pile of gifts sat at the bay window, a mixture of colors in the morning light. She had a letter propped against her breakfast, which was a beautiful crepe with chocolate and strawberries.

She hadn’t had a crepe since she’d been to France, but it had always been a deep indulgence of hers.

She looked around accusatory as if someone were in the room with her, but she was alone.

_Dear Hermione,_   
_You may have the rest of the week off as we are rearranging the office. Further information will be provided as of Monday._   
_Happy birthday,_   
_Obscurus Books_

Hermione’s chest tightened with grief. She should be excited to have a day off, but three? Then the weekend?

She’d go insane, locked up in her bedroom for almost a week straight.

The present that caught her eye first was one wrapped in silver paper with translucent navy bows. The paper shifted with soft blue shimmers, enchanted to glow as if a small constellation existed within the depths of it. Her gaze slid to the rest of the present. Some were wrapped in red or green, one in brown paper. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and rushed over, childish excitement threaded through her as she realized people had remembered her birthday. 

The brown paper package was from Hagrid. He’d given her a beautiful magnifying glass that translated languages into English. She baulked at it, a hand at her chest as she broke into tears. She hadn’t seen him since he’d gone over to France with several former Beauxbaton students. They worked alongside Fleur’s family to place Hogwarts students into Beauxbaton, in the interest of education. She hugged the ornate gold circle to her chest.

Her crying didn’t stop, not as she read the card with two dozen signatures. They were children she had seen to at the Order headquarters, who she’d given any number of supplies to. She’d given them food, books, clothes… Anything that she thought might help them.

Hermione sucked in a desperate breath as she tried to right herself, the magnifying glass set aside.

Next was a cake from Mrs. Weasley, along with a sweet hand-knitted beanie. Several leather notebooks were included, empty and fresh. A beautiful golden quill sat with those, and she laid them onto her desk with cautious hands. A small heavy box sat beneath tissue paper, which made her blood race. She worried it was something like a paperweight or a giant screw — something that Mr. Weasley had included because it was Muggle and reminded him of Hermione.

A small music box sat inside, listed as being from the Weasleys — Fleur and Victoire included.

Hermione opened it with shaky fingers, unsure why they had sent something so precious. The little ballet dancer inside the mechanism had been replaced with a small version of Hermione as she had been at Hogwarts, large hair and black robes. Several books floated on wires around her, as if they were levitated. Crookshanks was by her feet, poised to go in the opposite direction to the books. A streak of red and gold-threaded around the box, red velvet, gold clasps. The exterior was wrapped in paper that reminded her of the Gryffindor common room.

Hermione cranked the small metal prong, as Claire de Lune began to play from the internal mechanism. The books swirled in random patterns around her head while Crookshanks circled her feet.

These presents were signed as being from all the Weasleys.

Crookshanks was laid across her bed, though his eyes were fixed to the music box.

The last two gifts were a mystery to her, given that she knew no one else apart from the Weasleys and Hagrid. She tried to ignore how sad that should make her, as she was trapped in anxious grief over how sweet her gifts had been. She didn’t expect anything, didn’t deserve anything…

And so she picked up a thin, light box wrapped in rough green paper, her fingers tentative.

It was as if it’d been wrapped with leftover paper from a potion supply. Hermione tried not to smile as she pried it open, to find an engraved copper rod with her name on it. The rod would emit a spark to tell you the temperature, and it would alter the temperature by proximity. She examined it with an amused glint in her eye, not needing confirmation of who this was from.

A small silver bracelet sat in the same packaging, bunched up in baby blue tissue paper. It was a silver bracelet with runes across it; mannaz, othila, kaunan.

The runes that had locked her to Severus.

She searched the paper for a note, but there was none. She frowned at it, unable to clasp it onto her own wrist. She wrapped it back into the tissue paper it had arrived in.

The final gift wrapped in the celestial silver was a wand holster made of dragon-hide. She stared it down, unsure if she was meant to wear it day to day. She put it onto her forearm as she sat beside Crookshanks, to see how it fit. It adjusted without words to her arm, as if it were made for her.

She left it on, to see how it’d feel to wear such a thing.

The wand holster — Hermione glared at the door.

Hermione spent half an hour arranging her presents onto her desk, unsure if she’d ask Malfoy about the presents. He must have arranged them, as no one knew where Severus lived. And between Severus and Malfoy, she doubted that the former had the spare time to play the doting husband. She set her magnifying glass on her desk alongside her music box. Her curiosity remained piqued by the wand holster.

And her work, telling her not to come in.

Hermione finished her crepe and dressed for her day.

The trip between Spinner’s End and Diagon Alley took no effort now. She was there in a matter of seconds, her posture at ease and her head held high.

She had no reason to be confident, but it was her birthday. She was allowed to have some joy in her life, was she not?

Obscurus Books was closed, in that the door was locked. Even as Hermione approached, the windows were blacked out and none of the displays were out. She pressed her face to the window to peer in, but the windows had been covered in black, too.

They had said she ‘may’ have the day off, not that she ‘must’ have the day off.

So it wasn’t technically breaking in.

Hermione approached the door with idle steps as if she weren’t about to break into her job on her day off. She looked left and right, though their store was off the main road. People didn’t pass by, not unless they had a specific errand, and if that were the case, they ignored the store. She whispered an unlocking charm and slipped through the door.

It was dark.

The air was sharp. 

Hermione frowned. 

She expected people to be here to see the renovations.

The front desk was bare and different. All the wood in the store had been coated with wood stain, so it was a deep black rather than soft brown. She stared at it as she passed through.

Penelope’s window was missing. It looked like it’d been smashed, blood clung to the edges of the glass that remained.

Hermione paused, her heart in her throat.

It could have been an accident. Not a terrible accident, not something awful. Hermione felt her chest tighten as she stepped around several buckets of wood stain. The place smelled acrid, so rich she might be ill. It was the sort of smell that killed your brain cells and tempted you to breathe more deeply. Self-destruction tended to elicit that reaction in humans, that special blend of pain and pleasure. She had her wand out, lofted before her like a sword.

She paced down to the back of the building, detection spells bright before her fingers. No one was in here, it seemed. She checked over her shoulder before she slipped into her office.

It was empty. Completely.

Hermione’s heart dropped.

She’d been fired, and they hadn't the heart to just tell her outright.

She sank to the floor, her chest heaving beneath the claw of her hand. The floor had been stained, but that had dried already. Her office seemed to have been the first thing to go — had they started on it right after she’d left yesterday?

Her job at Obscurus Books wasn’t ideal, nor did it pay that well. It was tedious and dragged. Each day was a slog through horrible manuscripts and works that would be better as kindling than publications. She shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have broken in.

Perhaps they didn’t want to fire her on her birthday as if this were any better.

How had she known?

“Granger.”

Hermione turned with fierce eyes to see Malfoy, who had his wand pointed at her with a shaking hand.

He stared at her, as if he were blind to her before he broke into raucous laughter. 

It was her birthday and Malfoy had stalked her to her work, to mock her for being fired.

Any hesitation she had about being cruel to him snapped. She yanked her wand from her forearm holster, angled so it took less than a second to draw. She inched backward to cast a stunning hex at him, as strong as she could manage.

It ricocheted off the door frame and slammed into his ribs. He gasped for air as his laughter turned to pain, his eyes wide as if he were surprised. 

Hermione scrambled to her feet, dueling posture assumed as she glared him down.

Malfoy waved a hand at his ribs with great difficulty. His muscles relaxed around the stun, as his breath returned to him. He licked his lips apart, his gaze dragged from her forearms to her face. If he had something to say, he kept it to himself as he raised his wand.

“If you’re here to mock me, just get it over with,” Hermione shot a paralysis curse at him. It whizzed past his ear, as she’d aimed for between his eyes.

“Straight for the Dark Arts?” Malfoy cooed, a pleased smirk on his face.

“Did you follow me here?” She sent several small sparks at him, not enough to light the place on fire but enough to catch his skin. She was furious, furious with his need to appear when it suited him, furious that he’d caught her sobbing at her — 

Oh, she’d been fired.

“ _Rictusempra_!”

Malfoy cast a shield, his amusement palpable.

Hermione continued to pepper spells at him, one after the other, and he blocked or dodged them without visible effort. The nonchalance made it worse, so much so that she lost herself to her frustration and anger. Smoke and debris flickered in front of her, and she didn’t care, she couldn’t care, she worked so hard, so hard, and they never cared, they’d fired her on her birthday, they’d fired her.

By the time her wand stilled and she caught her breath, he was no longer in front of her. 

“Not to make light of the situation,” Malfoy said, his voice drenched in sarcasm. He’d Apparated behind her. “But may I ask why you came to work on your day off?”

But.

He Apparated. Not even she could Apparate within the building, you had to be — 

“You’re the new owner.” Hermione turned, enough to catch the glint of silver behind her. She pivoted, but he circled her. She ended up going in circles until she saw him across the room, leaned in the shadows.

“My father is, technically, but I’m acting on his behalf.”

Hermione’s lips quivered.

“It’s interesting,” he said, picking at his nails before he met her eye. “I had a wonderful speech ready for you, for Monday. Had you waited. You always cut ahead of me, in everything.”

“Oh, sorry I ruined the fun of firing me.”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed in the dark. “Fire you?”

“I quit.”

Malfoy broke into laughter. It was handsome and warm, it didn’t suit him. She wanted to stalk over to strangle him, but she’d torn her office to pieces. Chunks of wood lay around them, scorch marks sat beside that. She stared at the damage with empty despair. She had torn her office apart to spite him.

“I don’t want to sit through your speech about how you’re going to have to let me go, I can’t do it,” Hermione shook her head, thick curls wild as she stalked for the door. Malfoy shot out to catch her, his hand between her and the door.

“Come with me.”

“No.”

“Granger,” Malfoy said, his voice heavy in her ears. “Don’t presume you know the narrative.”

“Oh, I’m not presuming anything,” Hermione shoved his hand away. “You found out where I worked, you had Penelope overload me with work then underpay me. You wanted me to quit so you could watch me suffer, and when I refused to quit, you waited until my birthday to fire me — ”

“That’s incredible.”

Hermione shot him a drawn smile. She hated being right.

“How stupid you can be.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed in the dark. She hated being wrong even more.

Malfoy caught her wrist, to drag her towards Penelope’s office. It was a short enough walk that she endured the distance, but she yanked herself away from him before they arrived.

“This is your new office.”

Hermione glared at him.

Malfoy didn’t look at her, didn’t care to. He stood with his arms laced behind his back, chest out and chin lifted.

Hermione shifted her gaze towards the office. It was wide and warm, with gold and red accents. The shelves were neat and new. The glass window remained shattered, red and strange against the rest of the office. She remained outside of it, her hands interlocked in front of her.

“Father liquidated our real estate in the interest of commercial projects. My mother loves books,” he said, his voice level. “So he bought her a bookstore. It’s in my father’s name, on behalf of my mother. I’ve been assisting in revitalizing it since we acquired it.”

“That was three weeks ago,” Hermione prompted, her voice smaller than she’d liked because of her tears and screams. “The same day your family was announced in the Daily Prophet, right?”

"Now you're catching on."

"Why overwork me?" Hermione asked with an empty voice.

“Clearwater was disrespectful,” he said in a level tone “I realized she had undercut you. When we acquired the property, and I provided a better compensation for employees. She was keeping your salary for herself, along with your compensation for manuscripts.”

Hermione stared at the floor.

“I’m aware that the reputation of Slytherin is one of cunning, which could include undercutting people... While true in some respects, we do not hurt those who are loyal or those who prove themselves useful. Not unless there is more use in their pain,” he exhaled through his nose. “She was signing your manuscripts as her own, despite the fact I could pick your handwriting, your work. In the twenty-three days since we took over, she took over four thousand Galleons that were allotted as yours, from denied commission.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say. She remained quiet, unsure if she trusted anything he had to say for himself. It was pretty words, accolades he’d never paid her before. But he had torn through her memories, he’d watched her receive less and less since he’d taken charge of Obscurus Books.

“Why do you accept less than you’re due?”

It wasn’t a question Hermione had an answer for. She took a seat in the rich leather seat, set up beside the red mahogany desk. She touched the typewriter, one that she’d read about but never had the chance to use. They were used for wandless magic, old scrolls. Protective sigils, to be imprinted upon books or scrolls, for spells to be bottled into rituals that one could enact based on parchment alone. It was a rare magic, one that she hadn’t expected to touch let alone work with.

Malfoy remained by the door, his gaze slanted towards the shattered glass window.

“I was afraid,” Hermione said, her gaze fixed on the desk in front of her. “That she’d fire me if I challenged her on my wages.”

“Why work twice as hard then?”

Hermione shrugged, no response from her beyond that.

“S.P.E.W.”

Hermione kept her attention on the typewriter.

“At school,” he said, his voice strained. “You wouldn’t shut up about house-elves. As if they deserved wages, deserved basic rights.”

Hermione turned to him, empty brown eyes locked to decisive silver.

“You sacrifice all of yourself for everyone, yet you can’t demand the basic decency for yourself?” His voice lost all the gravel and edge it normally held. He didn’t look at her with any less malice, but she recognized it wasn’t direct at her. It drifted over her, around her, at the shape of her rather than her core.

Hermione was worried about Penelope, angry at her too. She had needed her wages more than anything else. With the drop in her rent and utilities, she hadn’t felt the sting of her loss. But if she had been with Ginny still rather than Severus, she wouldn’t have been able to eat or afford rent. It was a gracious act that Severus sent meals to her, that he had thought of her.

It was through the limited kindness she’d been shown by Malfoy and Severus that she managed to stay alive.

“I need you out before the contractors return from lunch.”

Hermione noded, unsure what to say to him. She looked around the office again, her heart in her throat. “Thank you.”

Malfoy waved her off as he pivoted to tend to the damage she’d exacted on her old office. He didn’t say goodbye, or mention her birthday. She hadn’t expected him to, not as she slipped out of the front door and headed for the Apparation spot. She felt light-headed from the chemical smell, which got no better once she arrived in the slim alleyway. She rested against the wall outside for a moment to catch her breath. She hadn’t realized how strong the fumes had been until she’d arrived onto the street.

Hermione stared a splash of red on the ground outside Obscurus Books, like someone had been dragged.

She looked to the sky, for anything.

Hermione sent a thank-you note to the Weasleys, to Severus and to Hagrid while she was out, as she had no method of using owls at Severus’s home. She wandered the streets of Diagon Alley with a heavy weight in her chest. Malfoy had bought her bookstore, by chance or by intent. He had tried to pay her for her work, while Penelope had kept the money for herself. And Penelope was no longer employed there. Perhaps even dead. She felt ill at the thought.

She couldn’t work there, not if it was a position she got out of blood.

She’d tell Malfoy when she saw him next.

It was a kind offer, but she couldn’t accept. She didn’t know how to run a book store, she didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t need his pity and she didn’t need his handouts from the Malfoys. She could pay back the Weasleys on her own terms. It might take longer and it may be worse work, but at least it’d be by her efforts.

She could fight for her own rights.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have a beta moving forward! More info to come. Some elements may adjust or change. Apologies for my extended absence.

**Thursday — 20th September, 2001.**

Hermione awoke to an ornate fruit salad. It was laid out in spirals and flowers, arranged like a bouquet. She picked through them as she played with the magnifying glass she’d received from Hagrid. She flipped through several books in French from the shelf that Narcissa had given her. They were romance books, which made Hermione smile in a strange way. She didn’t know if the books were curated, but most were detailed texts on charms and curses.

So to find a whirlwind romance about a dragon tamer and a girl with breasts too big to feasibly fit her robes — it was interesting, to say the least.

By lunchtime she had written her letter of resignation for Obscurus Books. She thanked them for their time and for the opportunity, but that she wasn’t ready to commit to the business to the degree that they needed. She listed several names of peers she had attended her Eighth year with, whom she thought might suit the role better. It took no time to Apparate there and back, as she’d rushed to the store and rushed back to the house.

At least it was done.

And so she read her trashy French romance novel with the enchanted magnifying glass. That is, up until three o’clock when Malfoy slammed her bedroom door open to throw a piece of parchment at her. It fluttered harmlessly to the bed, which ruined the gesture.

She let the book fall limp against her lap and let the magnifying glass slide aside. She stared at him with a quizzical raise to her brow, a sweet smile on her lips.

“This is my bedroom, I don’t storm into yours uninvited.” She lounged in the bedroom his mother had put together for him; there was perhaps a hint of irony in this.

“Why quit?”

Hermione’s expression buckled, her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed at him. “Because I don’t want to work somewhere that kills employees.”

Malfoy stared at her uncomprehending, his lips parted.

“Penelope.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

Hermione’s brows jumped up, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I told her I caught her stealing from you,” he snapped, his eyes fixed on the array of silver boxes by the window.

“And the shattered window? The blood?” Hermione’s gaze narrowed to slits.

“She blasted me through the fucking window and ran.”

Hermione’s face dropped.

“She’s been stealing from the company for years. Far longer than what I found, and we were there for… Three weeks? Perhaps four, if I’m generous.” He snorted. “The previous owners were old, didn’t look too closely at their books. She stole more than I care to say, Hermione. And when I told her I’d submitted her for evaluation — ”

Hermione’s eyes widened at him.

“She’s Muggleborn,” he dismissed, his hand pressed to his face. “All Muggleborns have to be submitted. I don’t relish the decision, but I can’t be seen pitying Muggleborns.”

“And yet that’s all you do to me! Pity me!” Hermione laughed, as she climbed out of bed. She’d not gotten dressed, still in her oversize Gryffindor t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. “Can’t leave her be? She had good reason, I imagine. Why else would she steal all that money?”

“Why are you defending her?” Malfoy stared at her as if she’d spoken a different language. “She stole from you.”

Hermione wanted to argue back but couldn’t. Instead she sat down on her bed, her eyes unfocused at the window. Autumn was thick in the air now, with the dark clouds and the bare trees.

“Now, give me a good reason you want to quit and I’ll allow it.”

“Because I don’t deserve the position.” Hermione twisted her lips into a tart smile.

“You do, easily.”

“I don’t know how to do it.” Her gaze dropped to the window frame, her shoulders hunched.

“You do, you’ve been doing her work for her for years.”

“I don’t want to work for you.”

Malfoy’s jaw tensed. “I won’t have anything to do with the operations of the store. It’s yours, and my mother’s.”

“Your mother?” Hermione said, dubious.

“She’s emphatic on education,” he said, his voice crisp. “She’s seen hundreds of text books donated to Hogwarts on behalf of less-fortunate students.”

“And yet you mocked the Weasleys for going through hardship.”

“Don’t tar my mother for my actions.” He sounded tired rather than defensive. His face looked tense, as if he’d not slept.

“Why do you care so much?”

Malfoy gave her a drawn smile, as if she were stupid. And perhaps she was. She stared at the dragon-hide wand holster that laid beside her breakfast.

“Why did you get me a birthday present?” Hermione asked, her voice thin.

“Oh, was it your birthday?”

And he left.

She glared after him. She wanted to tear the whole room apart, to toss everything that wasn’t hers into the depths of it. But it was impractical given she wanted to run away from his job offer, rather than rely on it. She couldn’t afford to replace the furniture or the books. There wasn’t even a couch to sleep on downstairs and she had no furniture of her own.

She could endure a month there, earn enough for her own place. She could save up plenty, if four thousand Galleons was how much Penelope had taken from her.

In a month, she could quit. She’d find someone to replace her, and she’d leave.

She could find something else.

* * *

**Monday — 24th September, 2001.**

Hermione turned up half an hour early, paranoia wedged deep in her chest. The door opened to her approach, as it tended to. Her chest tightened as she stepped inside, her arms full of stationery. Penelope wasn’t there, though Mandy remained.

Hermione had spoken five words to her since she’d been hired. They had no time to talk and no reason to. She worked the front desk and served customers. Hermione remained in her back office, doing her best impression of a studious ghost.

Now, Mandy was seated beside Narcissa, who had a pleasant smile on her face at the sight of Hermione.

“Oh good, you’re here.”

Hermione entered with stiff steps, unsure if she should be here. It felt strange as everything had been dusted and polished. The shelves were dark black and foreboding. The glass window between the main office and the rest of the store was like a wide mirror, spread across the frame of dark wood. Everything had a wash of elegance and distance to it, which made it’s contrast to Flourish and Blotts starker.

“Settle in, I’ll explain my expectations when you’re ready.”

Hermione hadn’t seen Narcissa since the stage.

A high pitch scream trailed through her mind, though she kept it beneath her tongue. She slid into her office and tried not to look at the expensive fixtures. Everything was fresh and new, so decadent she was afraid to touch it. Once she shrugged off her robe and her bag, she dipped back around the corner to see Mandy in business casual.

Hermione always wore jeans and a t-shirt.

If Narcissa noticed, she kept it to herself. Instead, she waved a seat into existence for Hermione. And, to her surprise, Narcissa had come with a plan for the next two years.

It covered the costs involved in the improved decor, balanced with the capital that the Malfoys had invested. They had outlines for a store in Hogsmeade which Mandy would oversee in a year, if everything went as planned. Hermione was expected to read through the drafted outlines for contracts, with varying percentages and expectations. There were rights, local and international, as well as translations and deals with magical creatures for licensing of their texts into English.

Hermione had been prepared to feign interest for a month before she slid out, but…

This felt real. As if she had a future, one that she had a say in.

She almost cried as Narcissa asked for her thoughts on having specific collections dedicated to the works of magical creatures. She asked it with genuine interest, which struck her as strange, but she embraced it. It felt like she was edging into territory she’d dreamt of. Her chest ached as she read over the expectations and planned compensation, from her wages to her sick leave.

It was noon by the time Narcissa had finished running through her proposals and notes.

“I’m sorry to arrive and bombard you,” Narcissa laughed like sleigh bells.

“No, it’s really cool,” Mandy eyed the store in Hogsmeade they’d begun work on.

“Very comprehensive,” Hermione agreed, her eyes narrowed at the spread of parchments.

“But you have an issue with it.”

Hermione snapped her gaze to Narcissa, who smirked so softly that she saw her son for a second.

“I expect you to pull it apart.” Narcissa waved her hands at the parchment, her head tipped with another soft laugh. “This isn’t my area of expertise, just a few ideas I had while idling in France. You’ve been here for long enough, Hermione, I anticipate you will have suggestions and changes. I welcome them.”

Hermione felt like she was going to sink into a sweet trap.

“Now, I must go get lunch with some friends,” she adjusted her dress as she stood. It was flared at the wrists and the ankles, which made her look like a pillar. “We shall have a meeting and review each month, let’s say, the last Monday of each month. I have a small wooden box in your office, Hermione. Should you need me, put a letter into that, I’ll respond in kind when I’m able.”

Hermione watched Narcissa vanish out the front door, with Mandy by her side.

“So I get your old office?” Mandy asked, her voice coy.

“I suppose so.”

The afternoon was busier than it had been in the past. Hermione remained in her mirrored office, which allowed her to see out while no one could see in. They had expanded it, so she had a few meters in any given direction. Several large bookshelves lined the back wall of her office, while her desk was tucked beneath the glass window. She stood by it several times just to watch excited children rush in to buy books.

The little girls who looked too much like her, wide eyes, bright smiles, eager hands, sharp minds.

The little boys who had messy hair and freckles or clothes three sizes too big.

The sort of children that reminded her of Hogwarts.

For all her anger and theatrics, there was nowhere else in the world that she felt safe. Not Severus’s house, never the meetings… She had work, and that had been taken from her. She had panicked and tried to run from that, too, but she needed the money. She did, sorely, deeply.

If she could trust the Malfoys, then this might not be so bad.

At least until they got Voldemort removed.

* * *

**Friday — 5th October, 2001.**

Hermione found a small pouch on her desk when she arrived to work. A note sat beside it, which said to leave the pouch as it would replenish each fortnight with her salary. She tipped the coins out onto her hand and couldn’t stop herself from laughing as they spilled onto her palm, cascades of them. They showered from her palm, bounced across the floor, shimmering and bright in the candlelight. It was too much, even without counting.

After she’d picked them all out, she counted — it was a thousand Galleons.

Hermione sat on the floor of her office and stared at them, collected into small towers. 

That was…

She hugged her knees to her chest, her chin on her knees.

That was three thousand pounds, from a rough guess.

Her work had been much the same. She reviewed dozens of manuscripts that week, offered contracts and received counteroffers. It was no more complicated, but based on her math, she now received a base salary as well as commission on the books they sold. She found a small scrap of paper mixed in with the Galleons, which broke down her expenses and her payments. It gave her the taxed amount, which meant she’d been paid even more, but they’d done that part for her.

It took her an hour to process it, as the weight in her chest shifted. She was anxious about food, about bills, rent, toiletries, everything for so long. But now she was being paid by a family who gained their wealth through real estate and Dark Arts in equal measure. And the bubble burst along with her excitement.

Because it was too much. More than she deserved.

She couldn’t spend it. Not on herself.

Hermione picked out seventy Galleons of the coins and dropped the rest back in.

The Order meeting passed with little of note. Severus didn’t meet her eye, though the Weasleys rounded on her in a show of solidarity. Several Death Eaters had been seen sulking in the remains of Craggle Street, but otherwise things were quiet. Hermione enjoyed this silence, though she did corner Severus to ask how Hogwarts was.

He looked thin in the face still, tired and drawn. When she asked he left, so she resolved to not ask next time.

Malfoy kept to the study or his bedroom, as if in perfect replication of the Severus’s schedule. He was rarely home, whether he was out on Death Eater business or personal business. She hadn’t had a chance to ask him either, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

* * *

**Friday — 19th October, 2001.**

Work had become far more streamlined as Hermione was allowed to approve or deny manuscripts without any overhead process. It meant she was able to have snappier interactions with her clients. She explained in a personal letter to each that she had been made aware of their needs, their works and that Penelope had to move on from the company. No one argued with her, most were unaffected. Several asked if Penelope was okay, and Hermione lied, saying she was fine.

She hoped it wasn’t a lie.

When she wasn’t at work, she was working through Severus’s shelves. She had straightened out half of the ground floor study, which she considered a personal achievement. Crookshanks had begun to prowl the house, and several times she spotted the giant orange cat laid across Malfoy’s shoulders if he was reading in the study. She didn’t linger if he was there, she took it upon herself to rush downstairs to the study in her brief window of opportunity.

The lower potions study was elaborate and would take too much time to become familiar with. Malfoy treated it as his real bedroom, as he was often down there with various potions and books. She didn’t want to intrude and refused to be alone with him in such a space. It felt too intimate, too private. If she screamed, no one would hear her.

She had found a genetic trace spell through the genealogy book, but she needed some of Voldemort’s blood to be able to perform the ritual. She noted it down with the golden lace around her fingers, shaped in shorthand. 

But married life to Severus was strangely simple. She often forgot she was married until she looked at her ring, or saw her name on her little pay slip at Obscurus Books. She picked up the slip of paper from the pouch to see she’d been paid two thousand Galleons, as she’d not taken her previous pay.

Hermione plucked out her seventy Galleons and left the rest.

When Hermione arrived back home she made a beeline for her bedroom. Malfoy was in the kitchen, as if he’d been waiting to speak with her. She ignored him and rushed for her door, to find an envelope on her bed with six thousand Galleons.

Your wages, as well as the money that was owed to you by Penelope.

Hermione flopped onto her bed, her feet dangled over the edge.

She couldn’t keep this money.

She just couldn’t.

…

The Order meeting that night would be the perfect opportunity. She dressed in her usual hoodie and jeans, no different than usual. One wouldn’t expect her to be carrying six thousand Galleons in an enchanted purse. But this money meant she could make peace with Ginny, and that was a good cause. She owed Ginny for the rent she’d paid, and she hadn’t expected to be able to pay it so soon. She entered the meeting room with her head held high and her smile wide.

“You okay Hermione?” Ron asked, a half-there smile as he watched her strut over to Ginny.

“I’m great,” Hermione dismissed. “Ginny.”

“What did I do?” She didn’t have a chance to dodge Hermione, who shoved the purse into Ginny’s chest.

The room had been in idle conversation about several deaths in France. They all went quiet as Ginny upended the pouch onto the table.

Hermione hadn’t had a chance to stop her.

Gold slid everywhere, across the table, the floor. Severus stepped back, his gaze fixed on Hermione from his corner beside Doge and Jones. The room looked like the set of a pirate film, where the gold was strewn across the tables and floor at the behest of the greedy pirate captain.

“I had to pay you back,” Hermione said, her face bright red.

“For what?” Ginny stared at her. “I told you not to worry about the split rent.”

“No, for the last payment, the one you left for the landlord.”

Ginny blinked, confused. She looked at Ron and the twins, who stared at Hermione with matched confusion.

Hermione’s stomach inched higher and higher, like a ride at a theme park.

“We though you left that note.” Ginny made a strange face, as if she were worried about Hermione.

Hermione’s eyes strained. She thought of the apartment, torn to pieces, how Malfoy had been there… And then she’d left. She didn’t know how long it’d been between his arrival at Spinner’s End. She raked through her memories, as if something might stand out about it.

“I can’t…” Ginny looked at the gold, which was spread across the floor. “I can’t take all this, Hermione.”

“Please do, just, whoever wants it, please,” she looked at Kingsley and Ron, who were at the front of the classroom. “Use the money to buy potions ingredients, things we can use, artifacts, anything. I don’t want it.”

Hermione rushed out of the room, her anger in her throat.

She sprinted for the edge of the anti-Apparition zone, so she could get back to Spinner’s End.

There was a thick band around her throat that tightened with each second, anxiety laced around her lungs. Everything she had was pity and spite, mixed together and measured for the perfect level of embarrassment. Malfoy had seen she couldn’t pay her rent, so he’d paid it for her. Malfoy had seen how she’d wilted at work, so he bought out her business and sat her atop it like a cake topper. She was lathered in pity, to keep her pliant and useful, but she was useless.

She didn’t deserve the money, she hadn’t helped at all, all she did was hurt and cry and complicate matters.

She thought she’d finally done something right, but she hadn’t.

She’d just done as Malfoy wanted, again.

She heard someone shouting her name in the distance, but her ring burned bright on her hand. She was in Spinner’s End in seconds, breathing too shallow and her chest on fire.

Why couldn’t anything just be okay, for two seconds?

She screamed as someone grabbed her arms, but a hand slapped over her mouth.

Black eyes, sallow skin, strong nose. She relaxed to his touch against her will, her perpetual nauseous stomach settled. He let go of her mouth when she was sure she wouldn’t scream, but that was worse.

She kissed him.

She hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t meant to. It had been a brush, ruined by his nose and by her haste, desperate to close the gap, desperate since August when the silver had laid beneath her skin. He didn’t kiss back, he was static to her touch, but she pressed closer, needing him. It was a train wreck in motion as she pushed closer to him, tears down her face as she begged it to stop. Her hands dipped for his collar and his throat, as she tugged at his buttons.

When he pried her away, she sobbed fresh in his grasp. He held her shoulders with tight, claw-like hands, frantic black eyes wounded as she begged him to touch her, to hold her, for anything. The words were so muddled by the weight of her tongue and the latent love potion that she sounded drunk. She couldn’t pick out the specifics, just that she was begging him, pleading with him, like she might die without him.

And then the warmth vanished and the cold returned, so she shook beneath his touch, her teeth chattered around misty breath. The fire was going but it was no warmer in the house.

She wanted to be sick all over again.

Severus stood, backed several steps away from her. She remained curled up on the floor, her knees to her chest and her face hidden by the mass of her hair.

“You’ve gotten worse.” He sounded disappointed in her. She didn’t need to look at him to see it.

She cried harder.

She was so sick of crying.

Whether it was five minutes or five hours, she couldn’t say. But in time she managed to stop her ache of rejection. It was the potion, she knew. It was the potion, the muddled love potion that had manipulated the Stella Vinculum, the little silver marks that matched his. He knew it wasn’t her, but she couldn’t meet his eye, not as he sat across from her with a book on his knee.

He looked strained. She looked away.

“I’d thought the bracelet would help,” he said, his voice idle. “It’s meant to ward against the love potion, the ones that matched our marks.”

“The bracelet?” Hermione looked at him, her face puffy and red.

“I’m not sure if it’s made it worse,” he said as he closed the book. “Or if the potion is going further into your system.”

“I haven’t…” Hermione hiccuped. She drew her bracelet from her pocket, to show him. “I’ve been carrying it around, not…”

“Why haven’t you put it on?” His voice was exasperated. 

“I needed help,” she said, a weak laugh punctuated her confession. She didn’t want to linger on how pathetic she was, that she had no one close to her who could help her put the bracelet on for her.

Snape approached her. He stuck out his hand to her, and she flinched back.

“Give it to me,” he said, cruel and exact. He’d not looked her in the eye since he’d escaped her. He looked past her shoulder, away from her. She didn’t blame him.

He loved someone who’d passed away. She had to wonder if he’d last kissed Lily, if he wanted to keep that for himself, a last testament to her. It wouldn’t surprise her, and that made her feel worse. She hadn’t kissed anyone since she’d kissed Ron. She regretted the shape of it, how it happened, her tears, her panic, her desperation. She didn’t regret it altogether, not for her sake. She regretted it for how calloused it was, to throw herself at him when he wanted nothing to do with her.

“I’m sorry,” she swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t — ” 

“I know.”

“No,” Hermione shook her head. She dropped the silver charm bracelet into his outstretched hand. “I don’t kiss people without their permission, is what I meant.”

“Don’t spare my feelings.”

He crouched beside her, the bracelet pulled taut. He held his hands out, so she laid her wrist against the metal. He clasped it with clinical efficiency, not even a struggle to clasp it together. Not that she expected any different from him. He was precise in all things, collected. She was the mess, the one who fell apart on a bi-weekly basis. She shook the chain so it dropped past her bony wrist. It twinkled lightly, the fine charms brushed against the loop around her wrist.

He remained crouched in front of her, his gaze fixed on her wrist, as if he expected something to happen.

It was just an excuse not to meet her eye.

Hermione’s lips parted, as she wanted to apologize again, or to say something meaningful. But Severus was a man of few words who endured stupidity even less, and emotions were never something Hermione found easy to discuss. Not when they were her own, not in the heat of the moment.

She adjusted herself against the bookshelf, a spot she’d become too familiar with.

And she touched his cheek, gently, with the tips of her fingers.

He looked like she’d dunked him in cold water, fear in his eyes as he met her warm gaze.

But no impulse. No immense heat.

Hermione smiled, relief in her eyes. She swore she saw that same relief in Severus’s eyes too, as he rested for a second longer than he might otherwise in the warmth of her touch. She leaned in, cautious, her eyes locked to his to check for his response — and she pecked him. Gently, briefly, as proof that she would kiss him without the love-drunk weight of a potion. He didn’t move to match her, but he didn’t pull away either. It was no more intimate that she’d get beneath mistletoe when cornered, but she felt she owed him some small pleasantness.

Proof that he wasn’t to be touched when the potion forced her into it. She examined the heavy weight of his eyelids as he idled in her touch, cautious, as if he expected her to slap him or scream.

A flash in the kitchen made her stomach flip.

Malfoy had been in there when she’d arrived home. He’d been there when she’d left. She hadn’t expected him to linger there, waiting for them.

Snape rose to his feet to turn, a level neutrality to his expression as he met Malfoy’s eye.

“I got what you requested,” Malfoy said, his voice crisp from the shadows.

“Did they see you?”

“No,” Malfoy gave a shrug. “Some of us are actually good at secrets.” And his black robes flashed in the dark as he turned towards the kitchen. She heard the cupboard click out of place. Severus stood over her, his fingers twitched towards her before he helped her to her feet. He watched her face with caution as she stood, as if she might attack him again.

But the warmth didn’t rise in her as it had before. He was still warm, but not as he had been before.

She felt nothing.

Her stomach settled as he gave a firm nod, as if he were pleased with the results of a potion. He vanished into the kitchen and Hermione let him. The warmth that washed over her whenever she touched Snape had left her, which made her feel clammy and empty. She hadn’t realized how used to the love potion she’d gotten, like a perpetual drip of desire. She was thankful he’d mitigated it enough that it was based on touch alone, but that meant when they did touch, she broke into pieces.

If he were a worse man…

Hermione recoiled into herself.

She didn’t think about the spread of Galleons across the Order base. She didn’t want to explain why she had all this money, or where it had come from. She didn’t want it in the first place, she didn’t need it, she had been fine, she didn’t need hand outs — 

Hermione pivoted to look at the stairs, her throat tight.

She was living in a silver cage, provided by the Malfoys for her cooperation in their lie. She hadn’t seen any evidence that Malfoy had tried to do anything for the Order, no attempt at assistance. The only thing he’d done to prove himself was let her live, and she still wasn’t convinced that was an act of kindness. He could have killed her, easily, and yet he continued to share a house with her like a shadow. He bought her work, to exact further control over her life.

But Narcissa was attuned to the business and cared, deeply. His father had kept to himself, for which she was thankful. She didn’t know how much he knew of the arrangement, that Narcissa and Malfoy work supposedly working against the Death Eaters.

The Order meetings didn’t give her anything either. People were sent out on small skirmishes, and most times they came back bruised or missing a few fingers at worst. Molly and Ginny had begun to assist in minor repairs alongside Snape, but that was all she knew. She felt like she’d been cut out of the group altogether. As if they didn’t trust her. She remained in the study, in Severus’s arm chair, her legs drawn up and her gaze drooped.

The kiss with Severus barely registered. They’d been married since the eleventh of August, and it was — what? Mid-October?

It hadn’t been pleasant, either. She had mashed her face against his with imprecise desperation and he’d been terrified of her. She felt like a monster, though she doubted he’d blame her. The fear in his eyes lingered. The second kiss had been a promise, as proof that they had moved to a neutral place with the cleverness of the bracelet. She touched the silver which felt like ice against her skin. Neither kiss should had been expected.

And it should never have happened.


End file.
